To Save the Sun

Chapter Four

Anastasio Bomeer hated the dress tunic he was desperately trying to button properly. He hated the way it pinched at his neck, and the way it made him stand straighter and with more formality—against his will—when at public gatherings. He hated the fact that Court protocol required the ancient-looking academician’s garb and wished, not for the first time, that tradition would allow him to wear a more modern, more comfortable, Imperial uniform jacket instead. But above all else, he hated the occasion for the formal attire.

Damn! he thought. What have they done to this—With a last grunted effort he managed to get the stiff collar of the tunic fastened and stood, nearly out of breath at the exasperating effort of merely getting dressed, staring at himself in the full-length mirror in his plush suite.

His face had reddened, and the skin of his neck lapped ever so slightly over the constricting collar. Had the tunic shrunk? Surely he had not put on that much weight in his relatively short stay on the Moon. Glancing at the straining buttons midway down the front of the dress tunic, he frowned deeply, remembering that this was only the second time he’d donned the outfit in the whole year since his arrival. The first had been on the dreadful day he’d landed here, beginning what he considered a near exile on Earth’s only natural satellite.

His frown deepened when he recalled that he’d put the tunic away himself shortly after the welcoming ceremonies and that it had not been tailored or otherwise altered in any way since.

Angrily inserting a finger into each side of the collar, he tugged hard, nearly cutting off his windpipe momentarily, and managed to loosen the fit slightly. Or at least enough that the redness began to slowly drain from his face. A small sound, like a single chime, stopped him before he could struggle with the collar again.

“Wait,” he said aloud, moving back into the living area. He glanced quickly at the identification banner on the common screen, verifying the caller as his personal aide before accepting the call. “Audio only. Answer.”

The screen brightened, showing the youthful face and slight build of a man who, were it not for the impeccable tailoring of his uniform, might have looked too young to be in the Imperial service. “Academician Bomeer,” he said urgently. “You asked to be kept informed of the Emperor’s progress…” The aide’s voice trailed off somewhat, apparently concerned that his end of the call had remained dark.

“I’ve not finished dressing for the reception,” Bomeer lied. “You said you had information of his whereabouts?” Hands clasped behind his back, he walked slowly to the wide expanse of ray-shielded plastiglass that made up the entire far wall of the suite. He gazed out at a barren landscape that had been described by one of the earliest explorers as “magnificent desolation.” Where others may have found beauty, he found only revulsion.

“Yes, sir. We’ve been informed that the Emperor’s landing shuttle will pad down in ten minutes.”

Ahead of schedule, Bomeer thought. Just like the old fool. He leaned close to the surface of the window and squinted into the distance where a bright pinpoint approached rapidly from the east. From his vantage point he might be able to see nearly the entire approach of the lander as it skirted the edge of the city, before finally disappearing as it proceeded to the landing area.

“Academician?”

Without turning: “Thank you, Kandel. That will be all.” There was a tiny chirp sound as the aide disconnected.

Bomeer stared solemnly over the lunar landscape. His suite on the north side of Armelin City in the Tycho district had one of the best views of any of the lunar cities. With most of the industrial and support buildings located to the south and west, the tenants at this level paid dearly for the pristine scenery, unobstructed by the towers, receiving dishes and traffic patterns which were common sights from most of the residential areas. Those who even had windows, that is.

He watched the approaching dot of light for several moments, and as it grew larger confirmed it to be the Emperor’s shuttle. Even at this distance it looked huge. “I never believed that I would think of you in as shameful a manner as I do now,” he said softly. The bright dot moved steadily closer, oblivious to his mutterings. Save Earth’s Sun? he thought bitterly, and plainly saw his frown reflected back at him from the surface of the plastiglass. Save these Earthers? He turned disgustedly away from the window.

He crossed quickly to the couch and sat stiff-backed on the edge of one of the cushions, again cursing the tunic, and touched the keypad set into the bottom of the comm unit. A series of coded numbers flashed and changed briefly, finally stopping on an eight-digit number. Pressing the manual call bar, Bomeer carefully tapped the number into the keypad.

After several long seconds, a gray-haired man wearing a formal tunic that closely matched Bomeer’s appeared in the screen. The man looked frustrated, and Bomeer noted with satisfaction that the collar of his tunic was still undone.

“Anastasio! I was just about to head—”

“There’s been a change,” Bomeer interrupted. “His shuttle is already on its way.”

The look of frustration on the man’s face disappeared, replaced by an expression of surprised shock. “But he wasn’t due for nearly an hour! There’s no way we can assemble in time.”

Bomeer knew what was going through his mind. “My thought exactly. This is Javas’ work, I’m sure. He’s purposely having his father arrive early, hoping to catch us off guard, hoping to get whatever edge he may to gain the support of the Hundred Worlds for this foolish plan of his father’s.”

The other nodded thoughtfully, just a hint of anger in his eyes.

“Listen,” Bomeer continued, glancing at the golden time-piece on his wrist, “I’m leaving immediately. His shuttle is landing right about now, but it should be at least another fifteen or twenty minutes before his party appears on the platform. I think I can get there before then.”

“What about the rest of us?” The other man deftly buttoned the collar on the tunic and smoothed the satiny fabric with the palms of his hands, further annoying Bomeer.

“Round up as many of the others as you can, and get down there. Use this same code once I’ve broken the connection.” Bomeer touched the keypad once to send the code to the other terminal, waited a moment for a nod of confirmation that it had been received, then touched the disconnect bar, being certain to leave the code in place on his own unit.

His eyes darted around the room. “Lights at half. Security on.” The room lights dimmed immediately and a tiny red light suddenly flickered in the center of the door.

Nice try, Javas, he thought as he quickly exited the room. But you haven’t won this round yet.

On the other side of Armelin City, in his private receiving chamber near the shuttle landing pad, Prince Javas frowned.

“I’m sorry, Sire,” the synthesized voice of the comm unit repeated, “but the circuit is still engaged. A code lock is in place. Shall I implement an override?”

Javas could have Bomeer’s code lock broken, of course. One quick order from the acting Emperor could not only have the circuit opened in less than a millisecond but could also have reprimand orders cut, processed, filed and sent to whichever technician had installed the system in the academician’s suite. But there was no need; knowing that Bomeer was still at home was all the information he needed just now.

“No. However, please monitor the circuit and inform me when it is clear.” The unit responded with a confirming chirp, and the blue screen dimmed immediately.

The Prince allowed himself a moment of wry pleasure as he wondered what the man was up to. He was certain he’d caught Bomeer and his cadre of academicians unprepared by insisting that the Emperor’s shuttle arrive earlier than expected. Commander Fain had protested, of course, as had most of his father’s attending Court when he’d made the suggestion via holoconference earlier that morning. But an insistent nod from him and a knowing look from the Emperor was all it took for his father to put the order to action.

How odd, he thought idly. And how close we seem to have become; how like each other we seem to think. Had the years of separation really made that much difference in the way he thought? Or was it the experience gained from fifteen years as acting Emperor? In the last several weeks, as his father’s ship drew ever closer to Earth, the conferences and talks between the two had grown more and more numerous. Javas smiled inwardly at the realization that his father had come to know him better in these last weeks, while still separated by millions of kilometers, than in years of living together on the Imperial planet.

It suddenly occurred to him what it was: trust. The single suggestion of pushing up the landing by an hour, mentioned in just the right way, told his father I am in charge here. It was all that was necessary for Emperor Nicholas to immediately give Supreme Commander Fain the order for the schedule alteration.

A chime from the room system interrupted his thoughts momentarily. “Incoming message, Sire. Port Director Mila Kaselin.”

“Yes, I’ll accept.” He swiveled his chair to face the small screen in the desktop comm unit once more. A woman appeared, talking off screen to someone as she waited for her call to go through. She turned quickly to him, a hint of embarrassment briefly crossing her youthful features. She wore the light green coveralls and matching hard hat and headset of the port authority; only the markings on her sleeve indicated she was anything other than one of hundreds of other port techs. Javas knew better: Kaselin ran the tightest, most efficient landing facility on Luna.

“Director Kaselin?” he said simply.

“Sire, the Imperial shuttle will pad down in five minutes. We’re about to start landing procedure—” She turned her attention away from him abruptly, and without apology. Cupping the microphone of her headset with one hand, she spoke rapidly while studying the electronic clipboard held in her other. Like most civilians on Luna—or anywhere, for that matter—Kaselin spoke with deference, even timidity, to members of the royal family. But with Kaselin, all pretense of formality disappeared instantly when her duties interrupted. She followed protocol to the letter when necessary, but made no secret that her job, and the safety of the hundreds of people who depended on her, came first. If formality and protocol suffered as a result, so be it. Javas liked that, and silently wished that certain members of his own staff felt as strongly about their duties. He waited patiently.

The interruption dealt with, she turned back without apology and continued. “Landing procedure has begun, Sire. Your father will arrive in…”—again, a glance to the side—“four minutes twenty-two seconds.” She nodded curtly and, not waiting for a reply, broke the connection.

“Give them hell, Mila,” Javas said softly. The Prince stood. He removed his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on, deftly fastening the gold buttons as he approached a grouping of several plush chairs facing the opposite wall. “System,” he commanded, sitting in the leftmost chair.

“Sire?”

“Open my receiving room, please. I wish to view the landing. Interior lights off for the duration.”

The room dimmed and a glow formed several centimeters over the entire surface of the wall as the air shield came on. A thin shaft of light beamed into the room in a straight line along the edge where wall met ceiling, then widened as the entire wall slid noiselessly into the floor, exposing the huge landing bay.

Leaning forward, Javas looked directly below his chamber at the private viewing section reserved for members of the Court and invited guests. Nearly all the seats were filled. All, that is, except one row near the front of the section that had been reserved for Bomeer and his associates from the Academy of Science. He chuckled to himself, pleased that the academician had been so easily sidestepped. His eyes swept farther down to the floor of the chamber, fully a hundred meters below his position, where hundreds of technicians scurried about, attending to God-only-knew-what important duties that were essential to the safe landing of the ship. He squinted at the workers on the floor and in the dozens of catwalks and workstations that lined the curving walls of the circular expanse, and wondered which of the moving figures might be Kaselin.

Prince Javas shook his head slowly in awe at the tremendous sight, and allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up in a boyish grin.

“I never get tired of this,” he whispered to himself, settling back in the comfort of the chair. Then, aloud, “System, please place an audio-only call to Commander Fain aboard the incoming shuttle, and inform me when through.”

The public access conduit was crowded. Hundreds of people hurried down the wide, curving hallway that surrounded the landing bay. Many of them stopped momentarily to sneak a glance at the seating passes in their hands while looking for the large, painted numbers identifying each side passage in an attempt to find the spectator gallery to which they’d been assigned for the landing ceremonies.

Two men stood near a side passage identified as “Gallery 29.” The shorter of the two looked nervously around at anyone who passed nearby, lowering his voice whenever he thought someone might be within earshot.

“But there are so many in each section,” he was saying. He wrung his hands as he spoke and shifted his weight first to one foot, then the other. “How will I know if I’m in the right one?”

“Don’t worry,” replied his companion. “We’ve checked her seating assignment. She’ll be sitting in the front row of the gallery. After the ceremonies have concluded, just wait in your seat for her to exit, then give her the letter.” He seemed much calmer than the other; at ease, in fact. His exact expression, however, was hidden behind a thick beard.

“I’m not certain about this. What if—”

“Listen!” snapped the bearded man. His powerful voice cut instantly through the small man’s agitation and forced him to gaze up into the bearded man’s wolflike eyes; forcing him—as effectively as if he’d violently grabbed him by the lapels of his coat—to give his total attention. “Our cause is right. We must do whatever it takes to make His will succeed. Here…” He reached into a side pocket of his leather jacket and retrieved a gold bracelet. “Wear this, and show it to her when you identify yourself.”

He obediently slipped the bracelet over his wrist, examining the engraved picture on its surface as he did. “A phoenix?”

“A trinket; it means nothing. It serves only to identify you.” The bearded man took a few steps into the stream of pedestrian traffic and located an info screen he’d remembered seeing mounted a few meters down the far wall. “They’ll be sealing the galleries in a few minutes. Better get in.”

The man nodded, absently fingering the bracelet on his wrist, and headed down the passageway.

The bearded man stood unobtrusively in front of the passageway, pretending to be waiting for someone, until he heard a large doorway close. A quick look toward the gallery confirmed that it had been sealed; an armed guard stood before it.

Satisfied that no one would be leaving the gallery until after the ceremonies, he casually strolled away from gallery 29, careful not to attract attention.

The huge landing shuttle continued its deceleration as it approached Armelin City. Still five kilometers out, the spherical craft reoriented slightly and slowed even further—an observer on the ground might even have assumed it had stopped all forward motion entirely.

“Imperial shuttle Bright Cay now in approach position, awaiting final clearance.”

“You are in pattern, Bright Cay, and we have you in approach mode. You may proceed at your convenience.”

“Roger, approach mode. Stand by, please.” The pilot turned in her chair to face the uniformed man seated in the log officer’s station behind her.

Supreme Commander Fain stirred uneasily in the chair, feeling useless and unnecessary on the deceptively small control bridge of the shuttle. Indeed, the log officer had to be reassigned to an auxiliary position on the bridge afterdeck just to make room for him behind the pilot.

Protocol.

There was no real need for him to even be here. He knew the five-person crew could handle this or any other landing in their sleep—Fain had, in fact, personally selected them from among his own officers on the flagship now orbiting the Moon—but protocol demanded his presence all the same.

“Commander?” The pilot was still looking at him expectantly. The copilot had also turned to face him, and Fain wondered how long he’d hesitated.

“You may proceed with final approach,” he said firmly, then sat straighter in his chair to see over the pilot’s shoulder and watch the landscape below as it began to slide past the shuttle once more.

The new landing facility was clearly visible on the southern tip of the settlement, where all major traffic in and out of Armelin City was handled. There were numerous landing domes of various sizes located here, but the largest of them, built especially to handle Imperial traffic, was separated from the rest and appeared to be a miniature city in its own right. Smaller domes and external, unenclosed pads surrounded it. An irregularly shaped structure Fain recognized as an independent power facility stood out bright orange against the dull gray of the regolith.

“Now at one and one,” the pilot said, indicating the ship was at a distance and height of one kilometer.

“One and one confirmed. Come to five hundred meters for final lock-in.”

“Coming to five hundred.”

Fain felt a twinge of envy. How long had it been since he’d actually piloted a ship like this with his own hands? The personnel of the port authority were controlling a good portion of the landing now, but the final hand-off was yet to come. Fain sighed and leaned back in the chair; as they neared the dome and the vertical angle increased, there was not much to be seen through the front viewport anyway. He could watch the rest of the approach on the small viewscreen set into the log officer’s station.

“Commander Fain?” said the communications officer to his left. “I’m receiving an automated ground-based message for you.”

Now? “Put it through, then.”

“It’s coded private, sir; audio-only.”

Fain exhaled heavily and thumbed a switch on the armrest of his chair, putting his headset into private mode. “This is Fain,” he said, then waited for confirmation that his voice-print ID had been verified.

“Stand by for a transmission from Prince Javas,” said a synthesized voice. Fain’s brow knitted in concern: The call was automated through the Prince’s personal system, and not being handled by Luna. “Ready to receive?”

“Yes.” There was a one-second delay before the transmission started, but it seemed much longer.

“Commander, I hope you are in good health?”

“I am, Sire. But I must admit to being somewhat puzzled by your call.”

The Prince’s chuckle buzzed in the headset.

“I’m sorry if I alarmed you. You’ll be landing in a few moments and I’ll see you personally then on the receiving platform, but there’s something I wanted to say to you now.

“When you bring the ship down, you’ll also be bringing to an end the long and hard transfer of the Imperial Court to Earth. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the scope of this undertaking, nor of its ultimate importance to my father’s project. But—” He paused, and for a moment Fain thought the young man might be at a loss for words, perhaps for the first time since he’d known him.

“I’ve relied on you these last fifteen years more than you know,” he continued. “My father’s health is not good. You know that, have known it, for many years now. But you may not realize just how close you are to my father’s favor.”

“Sire, I—”

“Let me finish, Commander. You’ve served my father well, as both Commander of the Imperial fleet… and as a friend. He’s depended on you for personal advice as much as for professional competence, and I’m convinced he would not have survived the trip without you. Thank you, Fain.”

Fain sat, stunned, and could think of no response. His jaw moved soundlessly, but the Prince, apparently aware of his discomfort, spared him further embarrassment by quickly adding in an upbeat voice, “I’ll see you soon, Commander.” There was an almost imperceptible click in the headset, indicating that the signal had disconnected.

“We’re at five hundred meters, Commander, and holding,” the pilot said over her shoulder. Fain quickly recovered and thumbed the headset off private.

“Give me an underside view, please.” His viewscreen switched immediately to show the landing dome below them. Concentric targeting rings glowed brightly around the perimeter of the dome in a bull’s-eye pattern. A dark circular portion in the center of the rings, the massive landing bay doors, was easily discernible even in the tiny screen.

“I have the Port Director now, sir; would you care to give the hand-off?”

Fain looked at her, and caught the slight smile before she turned back to her control panel. “Thank you.” He thumbed the armrest. “Director Kaselin, what is your status?”

“We’re now in full lock-in, and are ready for pad-down.”

“The Bright Cay is ready. Bring us in.”

“Yes, sir.” She disconnected immediately. A quick shuddering grasped the ship as the gravity harness engaged. The sensation ended almost at once, and the ship started moving smoothly toward the dome, completely under ground control now. Fain watched in satisfaction as the well-trained crew began the shutdown procedures. All thrust was reduced to standby levels and the background noise and vibration of the engines—so ever-present during their entire flight—decreased, leaving the control bridge in relative silence.

As the crew finished the procedures, there was little left for them to do except monitor the systems on standby and enjoy the remainder of the ride. All video monitors in the small room showed the landing dome, now only a hundred meters directly below them.

Fain relaxed for the first time since the shuttle left the flagship and joined the others in watching the landing. He returned his attention to the screen just as an opening appeared at the crown of the dome.

The landing bay of the Imperial dome was the largest single enclosed space Adela de Montgarde had ever seen. The port facilities on Gris were tiny by comparison. Even the starport on the Imperial planet, certainly the largest on any of the Hundred Worlds, had nothing like this.

She sat in the fifth row of a special section reserved for those personally invited by the Imperial Court, accompanied on either side by members of her scientific staff. She recognized many of the other invitees despite their formal attire, but realized that there were even more that she had never seen before. She quickly surveyed the section and noted that, with the exception of the row directly in front of hers, nearly every seat was filled. Adela wondered inwardly, looking along the empty row, why that obnoxious Bomeer and his group of sycophants had not yet arrived. Surely he had been informed of the change in arrival time. Probably wants to make an entrance, she thought.

Her eyes scanned the vast chamber, trying to take it all in. The ceiling was fully four hundred meters above her, and it was necessary to look closely to make out the separation lines between the movable doors at the top of the dome and the gently curving walls that rose to meet them. There were several catwalks regularly spaced on the walls, and the lighted windows of numerous workstations, viewing rooms and technical facilities glowed brightly on the various levels.

Below the lowest of the catwalks were the spectator galleries which, like the dome itself, had been constructed especially for this momentous occasion and nearly sparkled in their newness. Arranged irregularly around the perimeter of the landing bay, the galleries gave the facility the appearance of a sporting arena, although the odd layout of sections throughout the dome reminded Adela of no athletic event she could imagine.

Each section was packed, with few empty seats visible. The dome had begun filling many hours ago: The spectators had been waiting patiently for the Emperor’s arrival through most of the afternoon. The gallery level was well separated from the upper, technical reaches of the dome, and each section was widely spaced from the next. Adela noted the hundreds of lightly armed security personnel, each in formal dress uniform, who strolled the lower catwalk as well as the wide areas between the sections themselves.

The entire area was dominated—or perhaps dwarfed would be a better word—by the enormous landing platform below, criss-crossed with a glowing grid pattern. It was the grid markings themselves that gave astute observers a clue to the true size of the place: Adela knew the grid lines were spaced twenty meters apart, but from this distance they looked as close together as lines on graph paper.

A heightened buzz swept through the crowd and she turned in her seat to see the source of the excitement. Immediately above them a viewing room had opened, and the Prince himself sat ready to witness his father’s arrival. He stood, raising a hand in salute to the crowd, and the room swelled with the sounds of cheering, applause, whistles and shouts.

The joyful noise continued unabated until the Prince rose and moved to the rear of the room, out of Adela’s line of sight. He returned minutes later and she assumed by his unhurried manner that he’d merely taken care of some routine business or had been called away momentarily by an aide. Javas remained standing at the edge of the room, hands clasped behind his back, and scanned the Imperial section, picking her out. When their eyes met, a smile came to his face and he nodded in greeting. His eyes lingered a few moments longer before sweeping out across the crowded chamber. He waved again to the crowd and took his seat.

A faint humming sound, more felt than heard, and a sudden brightness in the air took her by surprise. She looked up and watched as an air shield snapped into place around her entire section. Elsewhere around the massive landing bay, shielding was coming on section by section, and the surprised gasps of scattered spectators not familiar with the security precaution reached her ears. Gasps invariably gave way to nervous laughter, however, when those more used to the technology explained to their neighbors what was happening.

The air filled with three sharp blasts of a warning horn that immediately silenced the crowd. Dozens of rotating lights ringing the topmost catwalk drew all eyes upward. Another shield was forming at the top of the dome. It brightened as it formed, gradually expanding until the entrance doors in the ceiling were completely covered.

The crowd stared in silent awe as a soft hissing sound filled the chamber. The spectators did not seem as startled by the sound as Adela might have expected, and she had assumed that the uninitiated had been forewarned that the evacuation of air from the space between the air shield and the doors themselves was normal procedure.

The hissing faded away, punctuated by a single, steady blast of the horn, and the doors parted in the center with a rumbling that sent vibrations through the entire dome. Although the landing bay was brightly illuminated, even Adela was not prepared for the brilliance of the shaft of light that burst through the opening. Many in the crowd looked quickly away, eyes stinging from the sudden brightness, and watched the path of light as it rapidly widened on the landing platform below until they grew accustomed to the intensity and returned their gaze to the opening above just in time to see the doors clank into place at their widest point.

Nothing happened for what seemed a long time, then a sudden chattering and a collective gasp spread through the crowd. It started at the lowest rows, where spectators nearer the center saw it first, then spread quickly up through the galleries.

My God, it’s huge, Adela thought as the landing gear and the underside of the shuttle appeared over the opening. The sunlight reflecting off the spacecraft’s gleaming, white surface brought tears to her eyes and she squinted, rubbing them occasionally on the backs of her knuckles. Above the air shield dust and smoke swirled violently in incongruous silence in the narrow open space just inside the doors, but the swirling abated immediately when the standby thrusters were shut down. Caught securely in the landing bay’s gravity harness, the ship lowered smoothly and steadily through the opening.

The landing feet touched the air shield first, causing the entire glowing surface to shimmer momentarily. The air sparkled around the gear as the craft lowered through the shield, and glowing ripples spread across the width of it as on the surface of a pond. As the shuttle came through the shield, Adela became aware of the increasing sound level. Mechanical hums and the descending whine of the thrusters as they continued through their shutdown cycle came from within the craft itself, while sections of the gleaming metal skin popped and creaked as it began to equalize to the internal dome air temperature.

The shuttle had just barely cleared the shield when the doors started slowly closing again. As it happened, the doors thunked shut at nearly the exact instant the shuttle came to rest dead center on the landing platform. The full weight of the craft settled suddenly on its gear as the gravity harness was released. Adela looked at the massive lander, her eyes sweeping along the front where the smoothness of its surface was marred only by the bulge of the control bridge halfway to the top. She could see the crew moving inside the cramped space, going through their postlanding checks.

She’d never seen anything like it, and neither had the thousands of people who had turned out for the event. A mighty roar went up from the galleries, virtually drowning out the sound of the bay’s recirculating fans as they eliminated the last of the thruster exhaust from the chamber.

Adela turned once more to the Prince’s viewing room behind their section. He was nodding, the relief evident on his features. After a moment, he stood and joined in the general applause.

She looked back to the ship and, unable to contain herself, rose with the crowd and began to clap her hands.

Only moments before, the occupants of Bright Cay not involved in the actual landing process itself were unaware of the magnificence of the huge doors about to open as the shuttle approached. The Emperor of the Hundred Worlds sat comfortably in his powerchair, in spite of the stiffly formal uniform he wore, and enjoyed the natural pull of the world below him, the first natural gravity he’d felt in years. The closest of his personal physicians back on Corinth, the former Imperial capital, used to chide him about being able to tell the difference between the artificial light gravity they’d prescribed for his personal quarters there and natural gravity. But, like the bio-implants he’d more than grown accustomed to, he knew, sensed somehow, the subtle differences that lesser men missed.

“How long till we land?” he asked Brendan, the full-time aide assigned to him for the duration of the long voyage. He refused to think of Brendan as anything but his aide, even though common sense and practicality constantly reminded him that he was an aide in name only; that he was, in reality, a twenty-four-hour nurse. His lips drew together in a tight line of disgust every time the word “nurse” flashed in his mind, but despite the unwelcome feeling, the Emperor liked the young man and enjoyed his company.

It was a sign of either good training or insight that Brendan refrained from jumping to the Emperor’s side at the question in an overbearing attempt to reassure him of the safe progress of the vessel—certainly the Emperor had had enough of those kinds of aides—and he appreciated, not for the first time, Brendan’s candor and approach to his position. As it was, the younger man only turned slightly in his seat and, glancing at the timepiece on his wrist, replied simply, “About five minutes, Sire.” He was watching the progress of the landing on the large viewscreen set into the opposite wall.

As if an afterthought had occurred to him, he added casually, “There’s still time to ride out the landing in your stateroom, Sire, should you prefer.”

The Emperor studied the young man. Even though his medical condition was constantly being relayed to the Imperial computer and then to the medical staff, his aide had his own implants and constantly monitored his medical readouts. Even now, he knew, Brendan was comparing respiration, heart rate, blood pressure and other biolevels with those found to be acceptable for the Emperor in a variety of conditions. My pulse must be up slightly, thought the Emperor, or he would not have suggested a move designed to get me back into bed. He made a conscious effort to relax, breathing slowly and easily to calm his excitement at the imminent conclusion of the lengthy trip.

Brendan turned to him once more, right eyebrow arched slightly at an angle nearly matching the half-smile appearing on his face. “I guess not, then.”

The Emperor knew his efforts at subterfuge had been read and interpreted correctly, and returned a knowing smile. I can’t keep much from you, can I? he added silently.

There was a brief shuddering, followed by a decrease in the slight, almost imperceptible background noise of the cabin. The progress of the shuttle smoothed then, as they resumed their forward-and-down movement toward the landing dome.

The Emperor had been kept advised of Javas’ progress as his son set up the seat of Empire on the Moon. He’d even approved personally the plans for the facility they now approached. All the same, he was impressed with what he saw on the viewscreen.

He watched in silence as the viewscreen feed reoriented to an underside view, allowing a perfect angle for observing the doors—now directly below them—and their final descent.

The landing itself proceeded more rapidly than he might have expected, and it seemed as if only moments had passed when the contact warning horn sounded softly over the room system. There was a slight jar as the landing gear touched the pad, then another as the gravity harness released. The Emperor accessed the shuttle computer through his integrator and quickly verified that the landing had been perfect in every way, although he expected no less from Fain’s handpicked crew. He issued a silent command, giving commendations to each member of the shuttle crew.

Brendan stood solemnly, a rare look of seriousness on his face. “Sire, I… I’d like to request permission to remain aboard until after you’ve been transported to the Imperial residence.”

“Oh?” The Emperor scrutinized the young man’s features, looking for some clue to his discomfort. “Why is that?” The aide tensed under his gaze. Accessing his own implanted integrator, he observed that Brendan’s pulse and respiration were both elevated. We are linked inextricably, he mused. Patient and caretaker, linked more closely than Siamese twins. He softened his tone. “Brendan, if we cannot speak freely to each other after these many years together, then I know you less than I had believed. Please, do you have a concern of which I should be made aware?”

The change in the Emperor’s voice seemed to relax the man, and he continued, more sure of himself this time. “Sire, your medical readouts are already being switched over from the ship to the Imperial computers here, plus I’ll continue to monitor you personally, of course. But when you leave the ship in a few minutes, it will mark the first time you’ve been seen publicly in many years. I understand that the ceremonies are being carried on all the Sol system and Imperial nets, not to mention the thousands who have traveled here for the honor of being on hand for this historic moment…” He stopped, took a deep breath. “Do you really want to be seen with your, uh, nurse standing by your side?”

The words now in the open, Brendan exhaled heavily and gazed steadily into the Emperor’s face. The Emperor absently rubbed his white-bearded chin with his thin, frail fingers and nodded silently. The thought had simply not occurred to him. I must truly be getting old, to overlook such an obvious point, he admitted inwardly. He looked at the young man and extended a bony hand.

“You’re right, Brendan,” he said, feeling the strength in the other’s grasp. “Thank you for pointing it out.” Disengaging the powerchair from the magnetic landing restraints, he glided quietly to the viewscreen. “Inform Commander Fain that I am ready to leave, at his soonest convenience.”

“Yes, Sire.” Brendan bowed slightly and turned immediately for the door.

It took nearly fifteen minutes before the room system informed him that Commander Fain was on his way, and another ten before they arrived at the shuttle’s elevator. Most of the accompanying members of the Imperial Court were already waiting in formation outside the ship, and the two men, alone on the lift, rode in near silence until the elevator tapped softly down on the platform of the landing bay itself. The Emperor cocked his head to one side, listening intently to a steady vibration that seeped through the walls of the cubicle. Fain caught the motion and offered, “It’s the crowd, Sire.”

“Well, then,” he replied, “we had best not keep them waiting any longer.” He nodded once, and Fain touched a small keypad set into the front wall of the lift.

The door slid aside instantly, and both men were hit by what seemed like a solid wall of sound. The Emperor of the Hundred Worlds smoothly powered the chair forward onto the crowded platform, Commander Fain walking steadily at his right. Imperial officers, flagship crew and shuttle crew members, support personnel and numerous other dignitaries parted as he passed, and fell into position behind him. Fain escorted the Emperor to a large circular receiving area that had obviously been set up for the reception, then took two steps back as the Emperor himself glided into its center.

Lights dimmed slightly in the chamber and a spotlight illuminated the circle. He raised a hand in greeting, and the crowd exploded once more into tumultuous applause that continued for several long minutes. He raised both hands now in an effort to quiet them, and waited patiently for the noise to die slowly away. He glanced to Fain, who touched his earpiece once and nodded, indicating that the audio pickups in the landing bay were operative and ready, then turned to face the crowd.

“I thank you deeply for your warm welcome,” he said simply, his strong voice reverberating from the curved walls of the immense room. “It is good to be home.”

The crowd burst into approving applause, and the Emperor thought better of attempting an address at this time. Instead, he extended a hand to a point just above the nearest gallery, the one reserved for Imperial guests, and motioned directly at the Prince’s viewing room. Another spotlight arched across the room, catching the Prince in its center, and all eyes turned to face Javas as he rose, bowed briefly, then turned swiftly and disappeared from view. He reappeared seconds later at a door at the top of the gallery flanked by two color guards and, with a single wave to the crowd, started down the steps to one side of the private section. He walked slowly, purposefully, down the narrow aisle until reaching the fifth row. He stopped, and held out a hand to a formally dressed woman sitting a few seats down the row. The woman hesitated, but at the insistent urging of those around her she rose and edged carefully down the row to stand nervously at the Prince’s side.

He extended his arm and escorted her forward to the bottom of the gallery. The Prince’s color guard separated and quickly took position on either side of a short set of steps leading to the landing grid itself. A section of the air shield at the top of the steps quivered visibly and changed color momentarily, allowing Javas and Adela to pass through, then solidified when they continued on to the reviewing area where the Emperor now waited.

They were nearly on the platform itself before the Emperor recognized the woman being escorted by his son as the tiny girl who, in his bed chamber one night that seemed a thousand years ago, convinced him of her plan to save Earth’s Sun. The years have aged her, he thought as she curtsied formally before him. He studied her face and realized that behind her eyes was a subtle look of surprised shock, a look that reflected her own concern at how much he had deteriorated.

Prince Javas bowed deeply and moved to stand at the front of the receiving circle, where he looked out over the crowd and raised an arm to silence them. When he was satisfied that the noise level had subsided to his liking, he carefully removed the Imperial sash and held it above him in both hands, turning slowly so as many people as possible could see what he was about to do. Ceremoniously he knelt at the side of his father’s powerchair and placed the sash over the older man’s head, smoothing the glistening, satiny material across his shoulder. He leaned close and whispered in his father’s ear, “Things are going well.” He nodded to the empty row in the reserved gallery and enjoyed the look of understanding in the old man’s eyes as he realized that Bomeer had been sidestepped. He stood upright again and faced the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Prince said forcefully, proudly, in a voice more powerful and commanding than the Emperor had remembered. “I give you Nicholas, Emperor of the Hundred Worlds!”

There was no restraining the people now as they erupted into applause and shouts of approval that seemed to shake the very walls of the landing bay. Javas stepped briskly to a smiling Commander Fain, offering a hand that the other grasped and shook vigorously. As the Prince turned formally and stood on his father’s right, Fain immediately crossed behind the Emperor and took position on his left, completing the ceremonial transfer of power. As the threesome remained in formation for the audience review, the Emperor noticed that Adela, unfamiliar with Imperial protocol, stood awkwardly at the edge of the receiving circle. He looked up and caught his son’s eye, nodding in her direction. Javas raised an eyebrow in silent request and, when the Emperor nodded approval, slowly extended his arm, indicating that she should join him at his side.

The noise was so loud that it took several moments before anyone noticed the commotion off to the right side of the reviewing platform. Dozens of security personnel had surrounded one of the public galleries, and the people in the gallery itself seemed to be scrambling in an effort to escape.

There was a sudden flash in one of the backmost rows of the gallery and the entire wedge-shaped area suddenly turned crimson as the explosion was contained by the shielding. The flash subsided immediately, leaving only a smoke-filled cube behind.

A sudden crackling filled the air as the shield surrounding the landing area—until now at a normal setting—snapped to maximum, adding a translucent haze around the perimeter of the platform that made it difficult to observe what was happening in the gallery. Javas lunged for his father’s powerchair in an instinctive attempt to cover the Emperor with his own body, but a dozen members of the Imperial security staff had immediately surrounded him, separating him from the Emperor for safety’s sake, just as Fain and Adela were being hustled under equally heavy guard to different secure areas. The Emperor tried desperately to make out what was happening in the landing chamber, but he was already being placed into the protective custody of the shuttle crew.

If what he suspected was true, the entire gallery—effectively contained by the air shield—had been turned into an oven, guaranteeing the death of everyone in the section. The Emperor shook his head, realizing that his greatest fear had come true.

So, he thought. It begins.

Chapter Five

“Dead. All dead.”

The Emperor of the Hundred Worlds hadn’t realized he’d spoken the words aloud, although softly, and was startled momentarily by the confused beeping of the info system built into the walls of his study. The system had mistaken the words as an incomplete command.

“Cancel—” he started to say, then thought better of it. He hesitated, knowing how great the pain would be if he acted on the sudden thought. He sighed heavily, feeling the tiredness of the last twenty-four hours wash over him, and glided the powerchair to a position facing the center of the large viewscreen on the far wall of his study.

“Interior lights off.” The room’s artificial lighting dimmed immediately, but the screen cast a soft, comfortable glow over the room. “Give me a single-screen biographical file on each of the victims of yesterday’s explosion in gallery 29, alphabetically.”

“Manual or continuous rotation?”

“Manual.” The Emperor’s reply was a whisper. Although easily picked up by the system, another person in the room would have heard only the slightest mumbling. The mutterings of an aging man, he thought bitterly.

“The specified files will require some time to cycle manually, Sire. Would you prefer an integrator download?”

Emperor Nicholas didn’t answer, and instead stared intently at the screen. The first bio was already displayed, and showed a young man with disheveled sandy hair and a beaming smile. James Altann, read the file. Age: 32. Home: Alphonsus, Luna. Occupation: Cargo Driver, Exterior. Marital status: Married, one child.

“Would you prefer an integrator download?” the room system repeated.

“No, audiovisual only. Next file.” The screen display changed instantly, showing a freckle-faced woman with long blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. Miriam Altann. Age: 31. Home: Alphonsus, Luna …

As useful as the integrator was, the Emperor had come to loathe it and used it only when necessary; when alone, he nearly always shunned it. The information his personal link with the Imperial computer provided was extremely valuable—and frequently indispensable—but he had come to believe that it made the information it imparted too unfeeling, too “clean.” The integrator could have provided all the files in a matter of seconds, but the Emperor wanted to observe them with his own senses, individually, one at a time.

“Sire,” the system intoned, accompanied by an insistent chiming. “I have an incoming communication, coded as important.”

“Store all messages for later retrieval. Next.” The Emperor moved the powerchair closer and felt a sudden chill wash over him as he scanned the file. “Five years old,” he whispered.

There was a single beep from the system, indicating confusion once more at what it interpreted as another incomplete command. He ignored it and concentrated instead on the bio file of little Tracy Altann, noting how the child’s freckles and deep blue eyes closely matched her mother’s.

“Next file.” The Emperor went through the files slowly, one after another. There were numerous single entries, with no apparent connection to those who had died in the seats next to them. Some were Armelin City employees, some were tourists. There were members of the Imperial research staff and local shopkeepers. There were other whole families who, like the Altanns, had traveled for the rare privilege of witnessing the Emperor’s arrival.

All dead.

He started cycling through the files again. “This is a code one override.” The room system’s persistent tone broke Emperor Nicholas from his unpleasant task and he turned sharply away from the viewscreen. “This is a code one override,” it repeated. He had no way of knowing how many times the system had paged him since he’d disabled it several minutes earlier, but he did know that the override page would repeat until it was acknowledged. His physicians, rightly concerned for the aging leader’s continually deteriorating health, had ordered the override code installed in his personal page program. The Emperor also knew that if he ignored the code one page too long, Brendan and the medical staff, escorted by a full security team, would cut through the door with torches if necessary to determine why he had not responded. He reluctantly issued a mental command to reopen the communications program in the room.

“I do not wish to be disturbed!”

“Father, are you all right?” It was Javas. “I’ve been trying to reach you for some time and grew concerned. May I come in?” The Emperor did not answer immediately, and Javas’ tone grew more insistent. “Father, I must speak with you about the accident in the landing bay.”

The Emperor sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he had postponed this meeting long enough. Through the integrator, he ordered the system to abandon voice mode and return the room lighting to normal levels before admitting the Prince. “I’m sorry, Javas,” he said as his son entered, “but I was reading the files of those killed in the blast and, well, I’m afraid I got a bit more involved than I had intended.” He studied the Prince for a moment and, knowing that the young man would someday perform similar tasks, smiled briefly before adding, “It never gets any easier.”

Javas nodded politely, staring over his father’s shoulder.

Display off, he commanded silently, but realized Javas must surely have seen Tracy Altann’s file on the screen. Javas quickly returned his attention to him as the display winked out and was replaced with an external view of the lunar surface surrounding Armelin City, simply nodding at his father’s remark rather than pointing out the obvious. Thank you, son, for allowing me a moment of private pain, he thought.

“Please, be seated.”

Javas chose a firm, straight-backed swivel chair in front of the huge desk that dominated the room, and turned it to face the older man. The massive piece of furniture, handmade of the finest woods and inlaid with precious metals from a dozen planets, had been a welcoming gift from Javas. The Prince had arranged for its construction shortly after arriving on the Moon, giving orders that it be installed in the Emperor’s study before his father arrived.

The two men regarded each other silently for several moments, each feeling the awkwardness of this first face-to-face meeting alone in so many years. The Emperor noted that Javas’ manner had changed significantly since entering his study. The anger and frustration of dealing with the tragedy had shown plainly on his face when he’d first arrived, but now he seemed more nervous than the awkwardness of the situation warranted. The young man sat stiffly upright in the chair, not touching the backrest, and fidgeted uneasily. The Prince seemed to have difficulty keeping eye contact with him, but those moments when their eyes did meet, the Emperor saw a glint of something—a mixture of pain and regret?—in his son’s face. He called up a diagnostic readout on the Prince’s personal biomonitors. The information came to him quickly and confirmed what he’d suspected: His son’s heart rate, respiration and brain activity were all at high readings, despite his son’s best efforts to hide his discomfort.

Their eyes met briefly, and the Emperor knew that Javas had guessed what he was doing. My turn to save you a bit of embarrassment, he thought.

“You are shocked at my appearance,” he said simply, bluntly. “But what did you expect? I was an old man before we embarked on this grand adventure thirty years ago. I age. The Emperor always ages.” He leveled his gaze at Javas and looked deeply into his son’s eyes, then added, “As will you, when you become Emperor and are forced to stop rejuvenation.”

“Father, I—”

“No, Javas. It’s all right.” His words carried a tone of understanding as he spoke. All trappings of Emperor and Prince abandoned for the moment, he spoke instead as father to son. “I do not need the integrator to tell me what you’re thinking. The many holoconferences we’ve held in recent months are one thing, but seeing me alone now, here in this room, you’ve been forced to come to terms with your own future. A future that, I fear, may be coming to pass much sooner than either of us would like.”

Javas nodded silently, then looked into his father’s eyes.

“These fifteen years here have not been easy,” he began. “When I first set about my task of relocating the Imperial throne here, I had many questions about the wisdom of this undertaking. In the last year I’m afraid I asked too many of those questions of Bomeer and listened too closely and too often to his answers. But for every reason he expressed that this was but a”—the Prince paused, regarded his father a moment before going on—“a fool’s mission…”

The Emperor gave an amused snort. “Well, there is at least one thing, then, that the years cannot change.”

“Each time he attempted to win me to his side on a particular issue or procedure surrounding our purpose here, Adela—Dr. Montgarde—convinced me of each issue’s validity.”

The Emperor raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

“Academician Bomeer has done his best at every turn to convert others to his side of the argument, as well, even as he follows your orders—”

“Son,” the Emperor interrupted, feeling his demeanor change. Where before he had been disturbed, even shaken, by the tragedy of the day before, he now summoned up his inner strength and once more spoke as Emperor. “I have seen the reports; those that you have been so thoughtful as to provide as well as my own private intelligence. I am aware of the problems you’ve faced here and of your many successes. I am quite familiar with the situation, as it stands now.” He glided the powerchair to its workstation behind the desk, a silent order opening a cabinet set into the wall behind him as he pivoted around and took a bottle and two glasses from the well-stocked shelves inside. He smiled to himself as he turned back to the desk, amused at what his physicians would think if they knew of this secret cache, installed at Javas’ order to match the one in his study on Corinth. He gave another silent order, this time to suppress those particular biomonitors that would relay certain information—specifically, information concerning his intake of alcohol and its effect on his system—to Brendan, who was certainly monitoring his readouts around the clock.

“In fact,” he went on, pouring two drinks, “even though I’ve been in the system but a short time, I’m sure I can provide you with more useful information than you might imagine.” He handed one of the drinks to the Prince, then held his own up in a brief salute before taking a long sip of the liquor. “Are you aware, for example, that there is to be an assassination attempt next week at the Hundred Worlds Planetary Council?”

Javas stared at his father, the glass frozen mere centimeters from his lips.

“Lost your taste for drink, son?” The Emperor sipped at his glass, set it down near the terminal screen built into the desktop.

“Father! You can’t be serious.” Javas downed his own glass in a single bolt.

The Emperor shook his head. “Fine liquor should be savored, not gulped. Yes, I’m quite serious. As we address the collected representatives of the Hundred Worlds, there will be another attempt on our lives; yours and mine. And probably Dr. Montgarde’s as well.”

Javas, quickly regaining his composure, set the empty glass slowly on the desk in front of him. The Emperor studied his son carefully and raised a pleased eyebrow when he noted that the momentary blip in the young man’s bio-readout had returned quickly to normal.

“I can understand why you have become a target, Father,” he said bluntly, “and, to a lesser extent, myself. If I’ve learned anything these last fifteen years here, it’s that your project has not been well received by all. There would be many who would like to see the plan defeated with the end of your reign. But why should Dr. Montgarde’s life be in danger? Surely any opposition would realize that without the full power and support of the Emperor to back her work, the plan would end here and now, whether she was part of the project or not.”

“Would it, then?” He looked steadily at his son, allowing the meaning of his words to sink in. “If I were dead, you would immediately assume the throne. And, whether you realize it or not, it is already widely known through many of the Hundred Worlds that you would continue the work where I left off.” He reached once more for the bottle and refilled each glass. He sipped once of the dark brown liquor before continuing. “And son, unless I’m misinterpreting both my information and my own senses, it is also obvious to many that you will certainly be working much more closely with Dr. Montgarde than I ever would have.”

The Prince sat quietly, then rose and approached the viewscreen. Staring at the sparkling lunar landscape, he sipped at his drink. “I’ve been a fool,” he said quietly, turning back to face the imposing figure seated behind the huge desk. “I’ve been entirely too open about my feelings for this project.” He paused, then added, “And, yes; I have grown close to Adela de Montgarde.”

The Emperor waved a hand to dismiss the small confession and indicated the chair before the desk, waiting until the Prince sat before going on. “You’ve not been a fool. In fact, your unbridled enthusiasm for the Doctor’s theories will probably, in the long run, work to your advantage. Consider this: Many think my backing of this plan to be merely the dream of a weak old man, clinging to the last strings of power before the inevitable occurs.” The Emperor paused, allowing a tiny smile to spread across his lips as he absently studied the empty glass in his wrinkled hand.

“Well, perhaps there is some truth in that. In any event, you are well liked and respected. Your work here has impressed many of the representatives of the Hundred Worlds. For them to see your conviction and enthusiasm has, no doubt, won many more followers than Bomeer’s frenzied rantings.”

While Javas considered what he’d just heard, the Emperor issued another silent command, then leaned wearily back into the comfort of the powerchair. A green light flashed several times on the right armrest of the chair. The Emperor pressed the light briefly, extinguishing it, then said aloud, “Enter.”

Prince Javas turned his head toward the opposite side of the study and stood as a door, previously invisible in the intricate woodworking of the room’s far wall, slid noiselessly into the matching paneling surrounding it.

The newcomer was of medium height and build, quite un-imposing really, and wore—not a fleet uniform or an Imperial jacket, as might be expected of someone entering the Emperor’s private study in so sure a manner—but plain, civilian clothing in a style currently popular in the larger, more cosmopolitan lunar cities. A closer examination of his clothing, however, showed that his outfit was not as inexpensively tailored as a casual glance would lead one to believe; that it had, in fact, been purposely designed to look quite ordinary, as though the wearer wished to be able to blend into a crowd without calling attention to himself. The door closed behind him and the newcomer suddenly adopted a much more formal attitude as he approached the massive desk, stopping barely a meter away. There was no mistaking that when he stood, he stood at attention. The Emperor nodded once and the man relaxed, clasping his hands casually in front of him.

“No, you have not been foolish to show your excitement,” the old man went on, returning his attention to the Prince. “However, you have been careless in some matters. Oh, please meet Marcus Glenney.” Again, the Emperor leaned back, watching the reaction on his son’s face. So, the old man can still surprise, eh?

Javas extended a hand in cordial greeting, but he tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes as a look of haven’t-I-seen-you-somewhere-before spread openly across his features. “Do I know you?”

Glenney took his hand with a strong, firm grasp. “No, not officially. But it is good to finally meet you, Young Prince.”

“We’ve met… unofficially, then?”

The Emperor chuckled softly, enjoying the small joke, and indicated that both men be seated. He fetched a glass and poured a drink for the newcomer, who thanked him but nonetheless set the glass down without drinking.

“Marc has been with you for nearly, what, twenty-five years now, subjective time?” Glenney nodded. “And with my arrival becomes head of Imperial security here on Luna. He has been your constant companion—without your knowledge, I’m afraid—since your wedding day. I assigned him as your personal protector the same day”—he paused, the sound of contempt plain in his voice even to him—“that she entered our House.”

“So, it seems I have a guardian angel,” Javas replied, ignoring his father’s aside at his former wife. An amused smile appeared momentarily on his lips before his voice lowered, assuming a no-nonsense tone. As he spoke, Glenney sat a bit more upright in his chair. “My father would not be revealing your identity, indeed, your very existence to me, if there were not a point to all of this. What have you to report?”

The Emperor watched and listened closely to his son, pleased at how quickly he had adjusted to this new situation, how readily he had taken charge. You have matured greatly, he thought. I should have set you to an important task much sooner.

“Young Prince, I regret that there have been no fewer than three assassination attempts since your arrival here on the Moon.”

“Three!” A look of surprised shock. “I know of one, eleven months ago. My own security team”—Javas shot a quick look at his father—“informed me of their suspicions long before the threat was realized. Those involved were apprehended and dealt with.”

Glenney looked steadily at the Prince and said, not a hint of apology in his delivery, “I know. Your security team was given a great deal of help. By me. The information was channeled secretly, of course. They had no way of knowing that they’d not defused the situation as a result of their own efforts.”

Glenney glanced to the Emperor, who nodded curtly, then continued. “The second was taken care of without the knowledge of your personal security. In this case, however, those responsible were rounded up early on at Landsdowne, on the far side, with the threat never even making it to Armelin City.”

“I see.” Javas sat, unmoving, and stared intently at the security man. “And the third?”

For the first time since entering the study, Glenney squirmed uneasily in his chair. He turned to the Emperor, awaiting a sign to continue, when Javas pounded a fist on the table.

“Don’t look to my father for permission to speak! I asked you a question!” Glenney sat bolt upright, as if snapped to attention on a parade ground, but before he could answer, the Emperor held up a withered hand.

He looked to Javas, feeling a mixture of pride at the sudden strength exhibited by his son and regret at having kept secret what he was about to say.

“The explosion yesterday was not an accident.” He waited a moment for the words to sink in, and watched as a look of realization crossed the Prince’s features. The Emperor had ordered that the tragedy be explained as accidental, that the rupturing of a compressor line below the galleries had caused a flash fire responsible for the deaths of nearly 160 people.

“Not an accident?” The anger drained from Javas’ face and he eased back into the swivel chair. “But any attempt on your life from the galleries would have been contained by the shielding. Any assailant would realize that. I’m not sure I understand.”

Glenney reached into his jacket, extracting a thin sheet of stiff plastic, and handed it to the Prince. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

Javas examined it, read the markings: Gallery 29, Row 1, Seat 11. It was dated for the previous day. “Obviously it’s a seating pass for the landing ceremony. Did you recover this from one of the victims?” He looked first at Glenney, then, when the security man remained mute, to his father.

“No,” he answered for Glenney. “There was not much to be recovered. This was Dr. Montgarde’s pass. She had originally been assigned to gallery 29.” He observed Javas carefully, noting how his brow furrowed in pained concern, his lips drew into a tight line. “Without knowing it, you saved her life, as well as the lives of several members of her research team.”

“When you invited her to sit in the Imperial gallery,” Glenney added, “we no longer felt the need to concentrate our efforts in 29. Fortunately no other members of the Imperial staff or the Doctor’s team were seated there.”

Javas’ mouth opened in obvious disbelief at the callous statement, and he was immediately on his feet. For a moment, the Emperor thought the Prince might strike the man but he watched as his son turned suddenly, disgustedly, away and crossed to the other side of the study.

“A hundred and sixty people,” he said softly. The Prince sighed and shook his head reverently, but the inner reflection lasted only a few seconds before a look of fiery determination glowed in his eyes and he turned his full attention to the security man. “I want those responsible, Glenney, do you understand?” The Emperor started to speak, but Javas cut him off before he could say anything. “No! Father, this is mine.”

Glenney cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Sire. The cause of the explosion was chemical in nature, and those responsible died along with the others. Which is partially the reason, incidentally, for our not being able to detect this attempt in advance.”

“Oh? And why is that, security agent?” Javas made no attempt to hide his sarcasm and stared at him, unblinking, until he continued.

“From spectrographic analysis of what little we’ve been able to recover, it seems this was an individual attempt on Dr. Montgarde’s life. One person, certainly no more than two, apparently brought volatile chemicals into the gallery; most likely by saturating articles of clothing. Alone, the chemicals were harmless, but combining them—perhaps with an effort as simple as crossing his arms so the sleeves made contact with one another—created a nearly instantaneous reaction. With the shielding in place, the assailant knew he didn’t even have to sit near his target. The explosion, in fact, originated in the last row. Ironically, from that location the assailant probably wasn’t even aware that the Doctor wasn’t seated in the gallery.”

The Emperor kept silent and observed the fortitude his son displayed in handling what was surely one of the most difficult experiences he’d had since arriving on the Moon. He smiled inwardly, pleased at the Prince’s self-control.

Javas crossed the room and sat down. He rubbed his eyes wearily with the backs of his hands and the Emperor noticed for the first time how tired his son appeared. He had not been the only one, he realized, who had slept very little the night before.

The Prince leaned an elbow on the armrest of the chair and stroked his chin absently for several moments before swiveling the chair to address Glenney.

“You’ve missed something,” he said. His words came slowly, evenly, and he waited until he had the other’s full attention.

Glenney sat straighter, cocking his head slightly in puzzlement and curiosity at what the Prince might be suggesting, but remained silent.

“The explosion occurred,” he went on, “several minutes after Dr. Montgarde was in plain sight on the landing platform. Tell me, security agent: Why would an assailant, acting alone and in control of his own actions, attempt to kill a target that was plainly no longer available?”

Chapter Six

“I don’t like this,” said the gray-haired man. “I don’t like any of it. At all.” He leaned back, sinking deeply into the comfort of the thickly padded sofa, but despite his efforts looked positively anything but comfortable.

“You think I do?” Bomeer shot back. He paced briskly before the enormous window, nervously looking from time to time at the box resting on the low table between the sofa and the two matching chairs that faced it. Seeing that the top surface of the small cube glowed green and, satisfied that the audio blocker was functioning properly, he continued. “I don’t like the native Earthers any more than I trust them, but face facts: Now that Javas fully intends to support the Old Man’s fool project—and carry it on when he himself becomes Emperor—we can’t afford to be too particular about whose help we accept.” He paced steadily, glancing occasionally at the comm terminal to check the time.

“Academician! Would you kindly sit down?”

Bomeer halted in mid-stride and regarded his companion. With a bemused snort, he crossed to one of the chairs opposite the sofa and fell heavily into it.

“You’re right, Wynne,” he said, checking the time yet again. “My apologies,” Bomeer reached for a glass on the same serving tray where he’d placed the blocker, but a soft chiming from the door stopped him. He spoke tersely at the comm. “Identify.” The screen glowed immediately, an external camera showing a tall, slim man standing outside the suite.

“Is that him?” Wynne asked, leaning forward to study the screen more closely.

“Yes.” Both men rose, and Bomeer crossed quickly to the entranceway. “I’ll say this for Earthers, they’re punctual,” he said to the other academician under his breath, then, louder: “Admit.”

The newcomer was tall, Bomeer realized as soon as the door slid aside; surprisingly so. The external security camera had not given a true feeling for the man’s sheer size any more than it had given a clear look at the intricacies of his face. Although hidden by a thick beard, his features appeared mostly North American or European; but Bomeer could detect a hint of Asian stock somewhere in the man’s background. He wore a neat but casual outfit dominated by shades of brown that closely matched the color of his hair and beard. His jacket, Bomeer noted, was a finely brushed leather. Not waiting to be invited in, he strode purposefully into the room as soon as the door had completely cleared the frame.

“On behalf of myself and my fellow academician,” Bomeer said to the man’s back, “I’m honored you have agreed to—”

The man spun about, the angry glare of his dark eyes immediately silencing the academician, and drew a quick finger across his throat in a cutting motion. He just as abruptly turned away again and walked to the seating area in the center of the room. Ignoring Wynne completely, he hurriedly scanned his surroundings and reached into the pocket of his jacket, producing a thin cylinder—it looked to Bomeer like a pen or stylus—and twisted the top once, clockwise, and clipped it to the jacket’s narrow lapel. The tip of the object blinked softly, steadily. He turned to face Bomeer, the leather of his jacket creaking subtly as he clasped his hands casually behind him, and allowed a polite smile.

“All right, then. You were saying?” His deeply resonant voice was deceptively calm and out of place with the rugged image he presented.

Bomeer pursed his lips a moment and forced down the annoyance he felt at his visitor—dismissing his manners as peculiar, but normal perhaps, to Earthers. Clasping his own hands behind his back, Bomeer stepped down to the seating area and stood facing the newcomer. The two men stared at each other for several seconds, neither making an effort to extend a hand in greeting to the other. Bomeer’s neck began to stiffen as he stared up at the giant of a man, and he immediately regretted trying to imitate his actions.

“Your blocker was not necessary,” Bomeer said finally, indicating the blinking object clipped to the Earther’s jacket. “We’ve already seen fit to take all practical caution.”

“Is that so?” The man’s hand flashed into his coat and, before the two academicians realized what was happening, held a pin laser leveled at Bomeer’s face. “It wouldn’t be easy to kill you with this, Mr. Bomeer, but I could blind you in two seconds.” He punctuated his remark by flicking the weapon back and forth several times mere centimeters from Bomeer’s eyes. An unpleasantly sadistic smile crept across his features as he added, “Of course, with my foot planted firmly on your chest and fifteen or twenty seconds to work, I could slice open your throat.” He lowered the laser and waved it at Bomeer’s neck, whispering softly on each pass, “Zip. Zip. Zip.”

Bomeer stood frozen and felt sweat trickle down his neck, back; his armpits burned, and at the same time an incongruous wave of cold swept over him. He moved his lips several times to speak, but no sound came out. He glanced pleadingly to Wynne, still standing at the sofa, but realized that the older academician was even more terrified by what was happening than he was. The standoff continued a few agonizing moments longer before the bearded man laughed aloud and turned away, smoothly replacing the laser into his coat, and sat nonchalantly in one of the chairs opposite the sofa.

“Perhaps a review of what you feel to be ‘practical caution’ is in order, Mr. Bomeer?”

Bomeer tugged at his tunic, nervously trying to regain his composure, and sat on one side of the sofa. He regarded Wynne, still standing speechless, and managed to relieve his own anxiety somewhat by concentrating on just how much more afraid Wynne was than he. He cleared his throat once, then again.

“Wynne, please be seated,” he said, using every bit of will he possessed to make each word sound calm, steady. He watched the visitor carefully as Wynne sat, trying to take the measure of this stranger from Earth, and at the same time trying to utilize every additional second of silence to further calm himself.

“As I started to say,” he went on, feeling more of his confidence returning, “I’m pleased that you’ve asked to meet with us this afternoon. This is Plantir Wynne, Director Emeritus of the Imperial Academy of Science.” He nodded at Wynne, who sat looking even less comfortable than he had before the Earther had arrived. Wynne extended a quivering hand.

The bearded man regarded Wynne with disdain, and even Bomeer had to admit, if only to himself, just how pitiful his colleague appeared. “Please refer to me as ‘Johnson’ in this and any other transactions we may have,” he said, reaching to shake hands finally.

“I must be frank,” Bomeer went on, anxious to get this meeting started—and ended. “I was a bit surprised to receive your message several days ago. However, I’m not sure exactly what it is we have to discuss.”

“Johnson” stared at him, half smiling through his beard. “It’s very simple. You wish to stop this plan to save the Sun. The entire ‘Academy of Science,’ as you call it, has been on record as opposing the project from the beginning, but the two of you have been the most vocal in your disagreement, am I correct?”

And just how much else do you know? Bomeer wondered to himself. “I have been loyal to the Emperor all my life,” he said, “but I’ve not kept secret my feelings that this project will severely undermine the Empire, potentially bankrupting it. I have gained few friends among the Imperial Court for my beliefs, but to keep silent about my feelings would be a disservice.”

“I see.” Johnson nodded thoughtfully, then turned sharply to Wynne. “And you? Do you mimic every thought of your colleague, or do you actually have a voice of your own?”

Wynne seemed to have regained some of his composure and raised an eyebrow to the Earthman. “The Emperor has been a good leader for many years,” he said without hesitation, surprising Bomeer with the unexpected confidence in his voice. “But this plan will destroy the very fabric of the Empire.”

“I see,” Johnson repeated. Rising from his chair, he approached the window and stared solemnly out over the lunar landscape for a moment before turning to face the two once more. “I, and those I represent, could not possibly care less about the so-called ‘fabric of the Empire.’ ” For the first time since entering the suite, the Earthman allowed genuine emotion to show in his voice—whether intentionally or not, Bomeer couldn’t be certain.

“We do not care for your Empire,” he went on, the disgust plain in his voice. “Your goals are not ours. Your values, your government, your very way of life is abhorrent to those of us here who strive to cleanse ourselves of your influence.”

“You’ve damn well accepted the benefits of membership in the Hundred Worlds, though, haven’t you?” Bomeer countered, feeling his own anger beginning to rise. “The powersat network. Medical and agricultural research. Somewhat hypocritical of you pure, clean Earthers, eh?”

“It is a compromise that benefits us, yes!” Johnson hesitated as he returned to his chair, where he sat and crossed his legs, resuming the nonchalant manner he’d exhibited earlier. When he spoke again, all traces of emotion had disappeared from his voice. “We’re not stupid backwater natives, as is so popularly believed among the Worlds. We like our life the way it is, and accept those benefits from the Empire that we see fit to accept. Our dealings with the Empire these many centuries have been regarded as a necessary evil to maintain our life-style.

“Sol system is a harmonious system. Those Earthers not wishing to be a part of the life-style on the home world are free to settle elsewhere, and many relocate here on the Moon or in the Orbitals. Some have joined the project to reclaim Venus or have settled on the moons of the gas giants; still others accept the Imperial way of life or elect the harsh life on one of the frontier worlds. They do so with our blessings, leaving our values, and theirs, intact. Is that so difficult for you to understand?”

Bomeer looked once at Wynne, then regarded Johnson steadily. “What I seem to understand,” he said, rising from his spot on the sofa, “is that there is apparently little purpose to our continuing this discussion.” He reached for the blocker on the tray, but Johnson’s hand on his wrist stopped him. The man’s grip was incredibly strong. Bomeer stared at the Earther’s hand, envious of the great strength hidden in his deceptively thin fingers, and noticed a gold bracelet encircling his wrist. But for an etching of a majestic flame-enshrouded bird on the metal’s curved, gleaming surface, the bracelet was plain and otherwise unadorned.

Bomeer looked up and found himself gazing squarely into Johnson’s face. This close to the man, he noticed a musky scent about him that mingled pleasantly with the smell of his leather jacket. Further, there was something about the look in Johnson’s eyes as he leaned close that made Bomeer want to listen, something that made him want to trust the man.

“Let us understand this, then: We are a different people, you and I, and have differences in philosophy.” He released Bomeer’s arm and, sitting upright once more, addressed both academicians. “But in this instance we share the same goal. You, to maintain the physical integrity of your Empire, wish this project stopped. So do we. Only our motives differ.”

Bomeer idly rubbed his wrist. “And just what are your motives?”

Johnson was silent a moment, then, “We believe that the death of the Sun is part of the natural order of things, part of His plan for us. We wish to maintain our spiritual integrity.”

“Religious fanatic,” Wynne spat once the door had slid shut. “I’ve detested them wherever I’ve encountered them.”

“I heartily agree,” Bomeer said, retrieving his glass from the tray. The ice had melted, diluting his drink, and he crossed to a waist-high cart placed to one side of the room to fix himself another. “But they have their uses. Did you see his eyes? There was something there, something that made me want to—When he grabbed my wrist I wanted to reach out and throttle him. But something in his eyes, in the tone of his voice, made me stop, made me listen. That’s a powerful strength. If he can control and convince his followers, his own people, as easily as he did us…” Bomeer shuddered with the memory of the man’s stare.

“Yes, but can we control him?”

Bomeer exhaled heavily and, turning to stare out at the landscape, added, “Perhaps a better question would be: Do we dare try?”

Rihana sat before the dressing table in her private chamber, studying her reflection in the mirror as she slowly brushed her long coppery hair. She was not displeased with what she saw. Before leaving Corinth, she had accepted the fact that she would most likely need a rejuvenation upon arriving at Sol system, but a smile came to her lips as she observed just how little the trip had affected her.

There was a soft, polite tapping at the door. “Mistress Valtane?”

She paused, mid-stroke, at the interruption but finished with the brush and set it on the table before responding.

“Yes, what is it, Linn?” She made no effort to turn to face her attendant when she entered, and instead concentrated on her own image in the mirror as she considered which jeweled comb would best accentuate the outfit she’d selected for this meeting.

“The Ambassador’s liaison is here, Mistress. He is waiting in the receiving room.”

On that, Rihana did turn. “His liaison? Not the Ambassador himself?” Since it was the Ambassador who had requested this meeting, she was surprised at the news. “Very well,” she said, “I’ll be there directly.”

The attendant nodded and quickly left the chamber. Rihana went to a full-length mirror near one of the room’s several closets and examined herself. She’d selected her outfit specifically with the Ambassador in mind, being careful to choose a color pattern visible to the alien. She quickly undressed, tossing the expensive gown casually across a chair, and selected a two-piece pantsuit of shiny satin. Only slightly less expensive than the outfit now lying in a heap on the chair, it was considerably more comfortable. Glancing in the mirror, she confirmed that it would also be more appealing to the all-too-human eye of the Ambassador’s liaison.

He was already standing when she entered, idly watching the comings and goings in the small landing facility adjacent to the receiving room. Over his shoulder she could see the Sarpan shuttle parked and being tended to by members of her staff. He wore a loose open-collar white shirt, short-sleeved, with pants of a matching light material and looked more like a man on holiday than an official emissary for an alien race. Another of her attendants had remained with him since his arrival, and she nodded to dismiss him. The Ambassador’s liaison had his back to her, and he started slightly at the sudden movement behind him and turned. Rihana recognized him as the same man who had contacted her to arrange the meeting the day before.

“Mistress Valtane,” he said with a polite nod that was almost, but not quite, a formal bow. “On behalf of Ambassador Press, thank you for receiving me.”

“Please, be comfortable.” She led him to a circular sofa grouping at one side of the room and waited until they were both seated before continuing. “I must admit Mr.—Carrigan, is it?—that I’m a bit surprised. When we spoke yesterday, I was of the impression that the Ambassador himself wished to speak with me.”

Carrigan cleared his throat, but if he was at all nervous or unsure of himself, he didn’t show it. “I apologize for any misunderstanding, Mistress. Valtane, but the Ambassador never meets in person with anyone, including members of his own race, during what they refer to as a ‘first touching.’ It is customary for important members of the Sarpan race to meet first through an intermediary, even when all are present in the same room, and they have extended that custom to members of the Hundred Worlds as well. I’m sorry, but I’d assumed you knew.”

“First touching,” she replied, almost to herself, and extended a tentative hand. “Very well, then.”

He took the offered hand. “Ambassador Press extends his greetings and good wishes to the House of Valtane.”

She nodded agreement and Carrigan started to release her hand, but Rihana held it a bit longer, studying his reaction, before slowly letting go. Again, he seemed in complete control of his actions.

“Now,” she asked, leaning back into the chair, “may I inquire as to the purpose of this meeting?”

“Since it is widely known that House Valtane is no longer linked with that of the Emperor, the Ambassador is curious, Mistress Valtane, as to the reason for your presence here on Luna,” he said without hesitation. “May he inquire as to your purpose?”

Rihana smiled inwardly. You do get to the point, don’t you? she thought. Why not? “Yes. He may.”

“Very good. Let me go over a few points of protocol before you meet him.”

Rihana was taken aback. “He’s here?”

“Yes; on the shuttle in which I arrived. I thought I made that clear.”

Rihana was grateful for the quick lesson in interspecies protocol that Carrigan had given her as she waited for the Ambassador to enter his side of his shuttle’s small receiving room. The chamber was divided by an air shield similar to that used in the shuttle bays. Each side of the room, as far as she could tell through the haziness of the Sarpan-normal atmosphere on the other side, mirrored the other, with three chairs facing the shielding on either side. Closer scrutiny, however, showed several differences. While the chairs on the alien’s side were roughly of the same size and design, they were padded with thick cushions of waterproof plastic. The chair in which she sat was fabric-covered. Moisture dripped freely down the walls on the other side, and even the window-shield fogged slightly from time to time as moisture adhered to it. The Sarpan shield was nonpermeable and kept the wetness inside, but was not designed for insulation; considerable heat radiated from the window’s surface, and her side of the room was uncomfortably warm. The reason behind Carrigan’s choice of light clothing became suddenly clear.

“Ambassador Press,” she said when he entered his side of the chamber, remembering to look him directly in the face, “it is with great honor that I welcome you to my House.” She swept an arm to indicate, not the shuttle itself, but rather the landing bay in which it was parked. Carrigan, seated next to her, nodded and she rose and approached the window-shield, tentatively placing the palm of her hand flat on the sultry surface. The shield was firm, but gave slightly beneath the pressure of her fingertips. The Sarpan was somewhat shorter than she, and needed to reach up to place a webbed, four-fingered hand opposite hers. As their hands met, separated by the molecular thickness of the shield, Rihana could feel the warmth and softness of the alien’s fleshy palm against hers. He nodded several times, puffing gill slits at the sides of his neck with each movement. The “touching” completed, he reclined in the centermost chair.

The Ambassador wore a short kilt of bright orange with a matching sash over one shoulder, soft-looking leather boots and little else. The edges of his gill slits were pierced, Rihana noted, and sported several tiny silver bobs that glinted brightly against the gray-brown moistness of his skin when he spoke.

“Mistress Valtane,” he said in a strangely melodious voice through the comm speaker. “It is my honor.” He turned to his liaison. “Mr. Carrigan?”

“Ambassador, I have informed Mistress Valtane of your interest in her House, and she has agreed to discuss the situation frankly.”

“Good.” He returned his gaze to Rihana, blinking away excess moisture with transparent nictitating membranes. The drops rolling down his face gave the appearance that he was crying. “Why have you come to Sol system? We know that you are out of favor with the House of the Emperor of the Hundred Worlds. So. Why are you here?”

“Ambassador, my ouster from my husband’s House is unprecedented. I have come to make claim on several rights due the wife of the Emperor’s son.”

“But you are no longer his wife. You no longer have claim.”

Had she been speaking to another human, Rihana would have been outraged by such effrontery. She suppressed her feelings of anger and stared evenly at Press, rationalizing that he was speaking candidly and decided to return his frankness. “You are correct in that I am no longer the Prince’s wife, but that does not change the fact that I am to be the mother of his son.”

Press blinked eye membranes and laced and unlaced his fingers several times as he considered this new bit of information. “So. I see. Another question, then: Is your”—Press hesitated, groping for the word she had used—“ ‘ouster’ from your husband’s House related in any way to that scientific endeavor ongoing now to halt Sol star’s rebirth?”

“Yes. I opposed his support of the Emperor’s project. But I am confused, Ambassador. My reason for being here has only to do with my rights, and nothing directly related to the project—”

“A moment, a moment,” Press interjected, “a moment. Understand. I thought perhaps because of your estranged relationship to the Emperor’s House, that you might be less reluctant to inform me of this project. So?”

“So” indeed. That’s it, then. She waited for him to continue.

“Consider, please: We see a massive building of starships by your people. We see your Court moved farther from the Sarpan sphere of influence. We see a traveling of your people from all the Hundred Worlds to here. So. Consider: What are we to think?”

Rihana did consider. The Sarpan were, simply enough, nervous about the Empire’s massive buildup of equipment and ships. And why not? The relationship between the Empire and the Sarpan had been tenuous at best, and deadly—on occasion—at worst. How were they to know that the Hundred Worlds hadn’t decided it was time to change the relationship to their favor once and for all at the Sarpan’s expense?

“To the best of my knowledge, Ambassador, the stated purposes of the Emperor are true and without darker motives.”

“But, to stop a star’s rebirthing! Surely this is a folly?”

Rihana nodded in understanding. “I know,” she admitted, “it does seem foolish, just as I told my former husband.” A thought suddenly came to her. “Ambassador, despite the treatment of my House by my former husband, I am not without influence. It would be no difficult matter to confirm or deny the truth of this.”

“So? And in return for this truth?”

He’s sharp, Rihana thought, a smile spreading across her lips.

“Suppose,” she began, “that House Valtane were able to confirm that the nature of the Emperor’s endeavor is, indeed, scientific only—that this plan to ‘stop the rebirthing,’ as you describe it, is exactly that?”

A disturbingly human grin appeared on Ambassador Press’ face. “Mr. Carrigan, leave us.” The Ambassador’s liaison stood, nodding politely to Rihana, and quickly exited the small chamber. “What we say now should be between us only. If House Valtane could confirm this, then this one of the Sarpan would be much in debt to House Valtane.”

“Perhaps. But it need not be a onetime arrangement,” she hinted. “Think of the future, Ambassador: trade, information, materials; both my House and yours could profit greatly from such a cooperation.”

Rihana paused as he blinked in consideration, then tilted her head and smiled wryly, adding, “Think, too, of a human Empire ruled by a son of my House.”

Chapter Seven

I was wrong, the Emperor reflected as he watched Adela de Montgarde approach. She hasn’t aged; she’s matured. True, the corners of her eyes showed new lines that hadn’t existed when she’d left Corinth for Earth’s Moon. Her figure was fuller now as well, less boyish than he’d remembered. But if the tasks ahead of her on this difficult endeavor had aged her slightly, they had also invigorated her, filled her with a purpose that was easy to see after so long a separation. Still, despite her newfound maturity, he took comfort in the childlike way she delighted in each of the pleasures the royal family’s private garden presented.

The scientist walked briskly toward him through the garden. Smaller than the common green area of the Imperial dome—which, in turn, was only slightly less magnificent than the main green of Armelin City itself—the garden was aglow in plants, birds and flowers in hundreds of colors, from dozens of worlds.

There was a bounce to her step, he noticed, that the lunar-normal gravity could not quite account for. She’s anxious, excited, he reasoned. Do I have the right to make her dream more difficult? She slowed her pace as she approached, but before she could formally greet him, he smiled and motioned her to come, forward.

“There is no need for protocol here,” he said, “nor time for the luxury. Please walk with me.” The Emperor smoothly rotated his powerchair, gliding it silently down one of the several flagstone paths crisscrossing the garden. As they walked, she discussed the project and the many successes she’d already had in her research. Only half listening, the Emperor studied her as they followed the path. Her bio-readouts were strong, he verified; no less strong than her determination.

“I wanted to speak to you before tomorrow’s Planetary Council,” he said. “So much has occurred since my arrival, and there’s been little time. Are you ready for your presentation?”

She laughed softly. “Sire, I’ve been rehearsing this presentation, in one form or another, for many years now. I’ve never been more prepared for anything in my life.”

“Yes, I suppose you have at that. Come; this way.” The foot-path widened, passing through a series of flower beds before ending in a circular clearing perhaps forty meters wide where a number of the garden paths converged. Scattered throughout the area, surrounded by a ring of high shrubbery, were several stone benches. The Emperor directed the powerchair to the nearest of the benches and indicated that Adela be seated. He looked around him at the beauty of the garden and breathed deeply of the scented air. Adela sat straighter on the bench and waited in silence for him to continue. She seemed to have sensed the change in his demeanor, and the Emperor realized he must have let his guard down momentarily. It’s getting harder to hide my feelings, he thought bitterly. It’s getting harder to lie.

“Adela, I need to speak to you of two very important matters.”

“Sire?” Her tone carried with it a sense of worry. Her eyes darted nervously around the garden and her hands fidgeted in her lap. The Emperor did not need the integrator to tell him that her heart was racing.

She thinks I am taking her dream from her! “First, understand that the project has my full support.” She relaxed, but only slightly. “I know that the long years you have spent setting up the groundwork have been difficult. But remember that it is only a beginning.”

Her smile now long-vanished, she looked deeply into his face. “I realize that,” she said. There was something in her voice that took several moments for the Emperor to identify.

It suddenly struck him what it was and he regarded her differently as he went on. “I’m talking down to you, aren’t I? Like an old man to a child.”

Adela lowered her eyes, her silence confirming his question.

He chuckled in apology. “Forgive this old man, then, who seems to have developed an old man’s habits.” She looked back up at him, and he was relieved to see a sparkle return to her eyes.

“Let me speak bluntly, then, one adult to another: Adela, I am dying.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued before she could speak. “At one point, I was doubtful that I would survive the journey here. I’m afraid that I even resorted to a few drastic measures to assure my healthy arrival on the Moon.”

“Drastic measures? I’m not sure I—”

“ ‘Drastic’ is, perhaps, a poor word choice; I should have said ‘illegal.’ On the voyage here, my medical staff saw to it that I was kept isolated for weeks, even months, at a time for various health reasons. Under my orders, they explained to the Imperial Court that I was ‘being prepared,’ medically speaking, for the transition from the open environmental and atmospheric conditions on Corinth to the closed lunar environment here.” He swept a fragile hand to indicate the huge domework above their heads. “Only my personal medical aide and a handful of the Imperial staff know that I spent a cumulative total of nine years in cryosleep.” He waited a moment for the words to sink in. “Even Javas is unaware of this.”

Adela rose wordlessly and walked a few meters to a blossom-laden bush. The Emperor accessed his integrator and called up a botanical file that identified the bright yellow and orange foliage as that of a firebush from her native Gris. She absently plucked one of the fire-red blooms and turned back to the Emperor, her eyes avoiding his as he spoke.

“I did not want to resort to violating a law that even I had steadfastly supported throughout my reign,” he went on, “but it was a necessary evil.”

Adela returned to her place on the stone bench. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked softly, setting the flower next to her on the bench.

He reached out, taking one of her hands in both of his. “I knew that I would not live to reach Sol system. I also knew that without my presence here for the official transfer of the Imperial Court, Javas would have a much more difficult time in gaining initial acceptance for his support of the project, especially with the likes of Bomeer and his followers working at every opportunity to turn sentiment against it.”

He signed deeply and leaned wearily back in the powerchair. “I tell you this now because I want you to realize something: I want you to know that I felt strongly enough about the purpose and validity of your dream that I was willing to do what was necessary to continue my part in it.” He paused, then added, “Look at me.” Adela lifted her face and regarded the Emperor once more.

“If your cause is right, then you do whatever is necessary to make it succeed. It is not always pleasant, for it often inflicts pain upon you, as well as upon those around you; but Adela, you must adopt this attitude for yourself—or you will fail.”

“I know.” Her voice was a whisper.

“Much will happen at the Planetary Council and in the days to follow. I will offer what help I can in the time left me, but understand this: Whatever happens, remain true to what you know is right.”

The Emperor reached for the flower and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply of the sweet fragrance.

“It’s a firebush,” she offered, “from my homeworld. They were lunar-adapted and planted at Prince Javas’ request. He… knew how much I missed home.”

You’ve captured him, haven’t you? Much the way you captured me, he mused silently, and handed the bloom to her. She sniffed at it, then held it to her face, gently stroking the soft petals against the skin of her cheek.

“There… is another thing,” he said, surprised at his hesitation. The man who ruled a hundred worlds, who had passed judgment on millions, now felt nervous, uncertain for the first time he could remember.

“Yes?” There was a sober fear reflected in her eyes at what he might say next. She dropped her hands to her lap, where nervous fingers twirled the stem of the flower first one way, then the other.

“The explosion in the landing bay was not an accident,” he said abruptly, making no attempt to soften the words. “It was an assassination attempt—directed at you.”

Her lips quivered, and a single tear rolled slowly down the same cheek that moments before had felt the caress of a flower, now lying forgotten on the ground at her feet.

“Somehow… deep inside me… I think I already knew that it was my fault.” Her breath came haltingly in heavy sobs, and she lowered her face into her hands.

With only a few hours remaining before the start of the Hundred Worlds Planetary Council, Adela had assembled several members of her staff in the reception area of her office at the Imperial lab facilities. Spirits were high as they talked among themselves in anticipation of the event. Although they had already been hard at work on Luna for several years, today’s Council session would mark the official beginning of the project.

“How do I look?” asked Kel Sites, her first assistant. She stifled a laugh as she saw him standing before her in his formal tunic, hands spread at his sides for her approval, and wondered just how uncomfortable and out of place he must be feeling in the formal outfit. Everyone on the lab staff, for that matter, looked like strangers in what they had jokingly referred to as “Imperial costume.”

“Better check a mirror,” she suggested, pointing to the front of the tunic. He groaned when he realized, to the delight of those nearest him, that he’d fastened the entire row of buttons one buttonhole off from the proper order. Several of the others in the group, no more accustomed to the buttons and hooks found on formal attire than Kel, hastily checked their own appearances.

“Hey, don’t worry, Kel,” one of them offered. “We’ll make them all wait until you figure it out.” The room burst into good-natured kidding at Kel’s expense. None of them knew what had transpired at her meeting earlier with the Emperor, of course, but Adela felt good at how the mood of everyone in the room had managed to cheer her up. In spite of herself, she joined in the laughter; and enjoyed it.

“Dr. Montgarde?”

Adela turned to find a stranger, hands clasped casually in front of him. While smartly dressed in a modest business suit, something in his manner made it obvious that he was someone’s servant.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

He nodded politely. “My name is Poser, attendant to House Valtane. Mistress Rihana Valtane wishes to call on you.”

The light bantering in the room faded instantly at the mention of the name.

“I’m afraid now would not be a convenient—”

“She wishes to call on you alone,” he went on, flashing his best plastic smile. “I have taken the liberty of arranging an audience for you in your private office.”

“In my… I see.”

The man waited patiently, the smile not wavering. He seemed determined not to budge; but then, knowing Javas’ former wife, the man probably feared for his life if he did.

“All right.” Adela turned and addressed her lab staff. “Kel, you and the others are dismissed for now. I’ll meet you all later at the auditorium.” Her visitor waited in silence as the others bid Adela good-bye and filed out of the room, whispering among themselves.

“Well?” she asked once the last of the group had left.

His smile widened, if that was possible, and he stood aside as she walked past him down the hall, then fell quickly into step behind her.

There was a reception desk and terminal station outside her office, and Adela’s secretary was on his feet as soon as he saw her approaching.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” he blurted, “but she insisted on waiting in—”

Adela cut him off with an understanding smile and a shake of her head. “It’s all right, Stase,” she said. “Why don’t you take a break.”

He nodded eagerly, anxious to get away from what looked like a confrontation, then snapped off the terminal before making a hasty disappearance down the hall.

Poser rapped sharply on the door and another attendant opened it from inside. “Dr. Montgarde is here,” he said once the door had slid completely aside.

He motioned for Adela to follow him and took position next to the open door, announcing her formally as she entered. “Dr. Adela de Montgarde—Mistress Rihana of House Valtane.”

As angry as Adela was over her visitor’s insistence that she stop what she was doing to grant her an “audience,” she could not help but be awed by what she saw. Rihana was even more striking than Adela had remembered when she’d first met the woman at the Emperor’s table—and Prince Javas’ side—on Corinth years earlier. She wore a clinging gown of cobalt blue that shimmered and sparkled with even the tiniest movement. A torque of sapphire, seemingly carved from a single gemstone, and the matching blue stones at her wrists and ears formed a perfect contrast to the copper hair that was pulled to the side and fastened in such a manner as to sweep in a fiery mass across one shoulder.

Adela bowed, automatically respectful. “Princess Rihana—”

An icy stare cut Adela off before she could finish. “Dr. Montgarde, as I’m sure you are aware, the title of ‘Princess’ is, well, no longer accurate. ‘Mistress’ will do fine.”

Adela felt an angry heat rise within her, but forced it down and bowed her head slightly once more. “As you wish, Mistress. What can I do—”

“Thank you Poser, Dennie,” she snapped, interrupting Adela again. “That will be all for now.”

The two nodded curtly, then left, thumbing the door closed from outside. Adela heard a faint click and realized one of Rihana’s attendants had taken the liberty of putting the door into private mode.

“What brings you here, Mistress?” Adela asked, keeping her voice as friendly as possible. “I wasn’t even aware that you were on the Moon.”

Rihana looked thoughtful a moment, then said, “May I be seated?” She indicated a sofa at the far side of the room adjacent to Adela’s desk and, not waiting for an answer, approached it.

Adela followed, inwardly impressed at how the woman’s gown shimmered as she walked, and wondered for a moment just how much the outfit must have cost. She sat in a chair opposite her guest, folding her arms in front of her.

“As I asked before, what brings you here?”

Rihana picked up a small figurine from the desk, carved from a piece of Grisian rockwood, and examined it, turning it over in her delicate hands as she spoke. “I think we have something to offer one another,” she began without preamble. “My House would be interested in offering—for a price, of course—full cooperation toward achieving your, ah, goal.” She raised a knowing eyebrow and allowed the sound of a smile to lace her words. “House Valtane has considerable influence on a number of the frontier worlds; influence that may be needed to bring your project to fruition.” She set the figurine on top of a stack of reports on the desk and made no move to right it when it toppled over.

“And what of the frontier worlds?” Adela shot back, making little attempt now to hide the rising wave of contempt she felt for her uninvited guest. “Do you see a problem there, Mistress?”

Rihana’s eyes flashed, her composure slipping for a brief instant before she resumed. “Let’s be honest with one another, shall we? Without the full support of every planet of the Hundred Worlds, you can’t hope to achieve a successful end to this project. My House has influence that… might be put at your disposal.”

“I see.” Adela raised an eyebrow of her own. “You admit now that my ideas have merit?”

The erstwhile Princess nodded almost imperceptibly in the realization that she was dealing with a strong adversary here. “Let me say this: My people have researched your theories and have found them to be valid. Technically valid, that is.” She leaned back in the sofa and crossed long legs. Adela noted that the gown was slit up one side and showed the woman’s assets to good advantage. “Personally, however, I still feel the endeavor to be a foolish dream of a foolish man trying to make a last, memorable impression on his subjects. But, no matter; I see a great profit in this for my House. And what is so dreadfully wrong in that?”

And just what is it you really want? Adela wondered. And what might your price be? “Here is your answer, then: There is nothing wrong with that, Mistress. In fact, I’ll certainly need to make use of whatever help I can get. If your influence could become a factor in gaining support from the frontier worlds, then the help of House Valtane would be most welcome.”

Apparently satisfied that this meeting was ended, Rihana rose and crossed to the door.

“Thank you for your time, Doctor,” she said, tossing a holocard on the service table. The flimsy card skittered frictionlessly across the surface of the table and fell to the floor.

“You can reach me with this to set up any arrangements we deem mutually beneficial.” She smiled politely and half bowed, certainly more out of acknowledgment than respect, and knocked once at the closed door. One of her attendants on the other side opened it immediately.

Before exiting, however, Rihana turned briefly, almost as an afterthought. “This project… it will take many generations to complete, am I correct?”

“Yes, it will,” she replied, rising. “I’ll need years of cryosleep and rejuvenation to see it through to its conclusion.”

Rihana nodded, a sadistic smile coming to her lips. “Then you will lose him, you know. Just as I did.” She turned abruptly and left without another word.

Adela knew it, of course, but had refused to allow herself to think about it. Not now. Not today.

She thumbed the door closed and retrieved the holocard, noting that the copper-colored card was apparently blank, translucent. Holding it to the light at the right angle, however, the Valtane crest glowed a brilliant cobalt blue.

Emperor Nicholas felt slightly dazed and blinked several times, trying to minimize the stress caused by the lengthy integrator download he’d just accepted. Accessing the Imperial computer system was becoming more of a strain to him, and he reserved its use lately only for periodic bits of quick information, or for those informational files that were too long to be reported orally. Like the one Glenney had just given him.

“They were all killed, then?” the Emperor asked at last.

Glenney lowered his eyes. “Unfortunately yes. We don’t have much to go on at this point; and we’re getting precious little help from authorities on Earth.”

“You are certain their ties lead to the planet itself?”

“Yes, Sire. Further, as I mentioned in the report, I’m beginning to believe this group may have been involved in the landing bay explosion, or connected to the group that was.” Glenney reached into his jacket and produced a gold bracelet, handing it to the Emperor. “Two of the dead men were wearing these.”

The Emperor turned it over in his hands, examining the workmanship of the etching on its surface, and noticed how light it was. He tapped it on the armrest of the powerchair. “Hollow?”

Glenney nodded, adding, “Volatile chemicals could have been secreted in a chambered version, with a tiny valve to intermix the chambers at the right time. The gold itself would have provided excellent shielding. This one, of course, is empty.”

“Who were they, and what threat did they pose to the Planetary Council?”

“Uncertain at this time, Sire. However, there is a chance that this group, in itself, posed little or no threat to the Council whatever.”

“Meaning?”

“Sire, I suspect they were part of a considerably larger, well-organized effort that felt my people were getting a little too close to uncovering them. I think they set this group up purposely, as decoys, hoping we’d assume they constituted the bulk of their threat and would curtail our investigation. I doubt these five were even aware they’d been set up.”

The Emperor considered this last. “Whoever was behind them, sacrificed them.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“ ‘He who is willing to die for his cause thinks nothing of killing you for his cause.’ Do you know who said that?”

“Sire?”

“A twentieth-century writer of plays.” The Emperor shook his head at the irony. “What it means is that you are dealing with a group of people who will stop at nothing to achieve their goals. Remember that. Give the investigation of this group your highest priority.”

Glenney nodded in agreement.

“Is your next report lengthy?” Glenney nodded again and the Emperor sighed tiredly. “Very well.” He closed his eyes for the few moments it took for the images and information to flow into his mind.

The Emperor took a deep breath and straightened in his powerchair when the download had finished. “She has been extremely busy, has she not?” he finally asked.

“Yes, Sire,” Glenney replied, visibly relieved that the Emperor had regained his strength. “Unfortunately we have been unable to determine the exact nature of her discussion with the Ambassador, or her motives in meeting with him, any more than we know why she chose to call on Dr. Montgarde a few hours ago.”

The Emperor smiled and raised an eyebrow to the security agent. “The first should not be too difficult to guess: She is obviously looking for an alliance of some type between her House and the Sarpan, although to what end we can only guess—I trust that you will make finding the answer to that question another of your priorities. However, I agree with you that her motives for calling on the Doctor, at present, are unclear.”

“I’m certain we could find out more by having her detained,” Glenney suggested. “For a civilian, even one with a House as high-ranking as hers, to directly meet with an official representative of the Sarpan without the advance knowledge of the Court—”

“It is unnecessary to quote Imperial law to me,” the Emperor snapped. Reaching up, he rubbed his temples with thin, fragile fingertips but made no attempt to apologize before continuing. “Do not detain her. Instead, keep her under a closer watch until you have a better idea as to her motives.” He received an urgent, silent query from Brendan and immediately regretted letting the stress of the last several days get the better of him. He exhaled in a wheezing sigh and, even as the medical systems built into his chair started working at a higher rate, gave a silent command to admit his aide.

The door slid open, and the young medical technician walked briskly into the room, although he carefully avoided allowing his features to show anything that might signify undue alarm on his part for the Emperor’s condition. Putting duty to the Emperor first, he addressed the aging ruler directly, completely oblivious to the fact that the security man who had jumped instantly to his feet upon his entrance was only now relaxing his defensive posture.

“Sire, your readings are at levels that cannot safely be sustained.” He knelt at the Emperor’s side and examined the readouts of the chair itself to confirm the information he’d obviously received moments earlier from his implants. Rising, he added respectfully, but firmly, “I must insist that this meeting be concluded or postponed.”

The Emperor studied Brendan for a moment and determined that his concern was sincere, but that he was no longer overly worried—a quick check with the computer showed that the young man had mentally canceled the medical emergency code that had brought him to his private study in the first place.

He took another deep breath, then another, and began to feel his strength slowly returning as the efforts of the powerchair’s systems became effective. “Perhaps you’re right,” the Emperor admitted. I am so tired.

“I’ll wait in the anteroom.” Brendan stepped politely back, reserving any further medical discussion until the Emperor had dismissed his guest, and left the room.

The Emperor returned his attention to the agent. “It is time, Marc, that my son be advised of your findings concerning his former wife. Please see to it that he receives the report I just reviewed, and that he is kept up to date on anything else you may uncover regarding her activities.”

The man’s eyes grew wide. “Sire?”

“Do not question me on this,” he said. He narrowed his eyes and looked squarely at the man. “Thank you for your report.” He lifted a hand to emphasize that the meeting had ended and started to pivot the chair around, but stopped when he realized that although the man was now on his feet, Glenney had made no move to leave the chamber.

“Sire…”

For a moment, the Emperor thought the man was about to ask him to reconsider his request to inform Javas, but Glenney’s face—normally unreadable—told him otherwise. “Yes? There is something else?”

Glenney reached into a coat pocket and produced a data stick, rolling it nervously in his fingers as he spoke. “There is an addendum to my report,” he began, the barest hint of apology in his voice, “concerning another of Mistress Valtane’s meetings, that is not yet in the main system. Because of what it contains, I…” He hesitated and licked lips gone suddenly dry. “I wished to present it for your personal review before entering it into the main files.” He placed the stick in the Emperor’s outstretched hand, a look of relief plain on his features to be free of the thing.

The Emperor slipped the data stick into a matching slot in the arm of the powerchair and stiffened as the images flowed into his mind. He felt a wave of cold wash over him as he watched Rihana Valtane conversing in a private dining booth of one of Armelin City’s finest restaurants. She had altered the color of her hair, and her clothing was entirely out of character, although the thin disguise was probably intended more to avoid unwanted public attention to herself than Imperial scrutiny. Her dinner companion, on the other hand, had made no attempt to alter his appearance. The visual quality of the surveillance report was clear enough to easily detect the amount of wine in their glasses, but the conversation between the two was inaudible. An audio blocker had obviously been used in the table’s vicinity. He mentally speeded the download, noting the time, date and other particulars of the meeting.

“Their lips were visible through most of what I just saw,” he said to Glenney. “Have you made an attempt to have a computer reconstruction made of their discussion?”

“No, Sire. As I said, I thought this was important enough to give to you before I did anything with it.”

“Thank you for bringing this to me first.” He turned the chair away from Glenney. “You are dismissed.”

Glenney took a step forward. “Shall I enter this with the other file?”

“That won’t be necessary,” he lied. He used as much will-power as he could summon to control not only his bio-readouts but his emotions as well. “I’ve already done so.”

The Emperor didn’t bother to rotate the chair, but the sound of the door sliding shut, followed by a stillness returning to the room, confirmed that Glenney had gone. He dimmed the lights to a more comfortable level and looked at the bracelet, still in his hand, and marveled at the way it reflected even in the weak light. A phoenix, he mused. Life, rising from death. He waited, lost in thought. Less than a minute passed, however, before he heard the door slide open again. He didn’t need to turn to identify the newcomer; other than Prince Javas, only his immediate medical aide could enter his study without the Emperor personally admitting him.

“Please have a seat, Brendan,” he began, a lightness in his voice belying what he actually felt. He glided the chair around to face the aide finally, adding, “I gather you wish to reprimand me for repeatedly ignoring your medical orders of late.”

The man raised an eyebrow and smiled, as he always did when reminding the Emperor of his medical needs. “It appears that my reprimands are taken too lightly, sometimes. However, I trust that once this business of the Hundred Worlds Council is concluded this afternoon you’ll finally be willing to accept the medical order I gave you when we arrived, and the one you’ve ignored the longest: Rest after a long voyage.”

The Emperor allowed a smile to form on his lips for the first time since Glenney had come to see him. “Perhaps so. Perhaps so.” He stared into the young man’s eyes and concentrated, giving a complicated command that caused the study’s viewscreen to spring to life, replaying the visual portion of Glenney’s report on the data stick still inserted into the chair arm.

Brendan’s face drained of all color as he watched the replay, saw clearly Rihana Valtane talking to him at the restaurant. His eyes darted from the Emperor to the screen, then back again several times. He watched himself fidgeting in the replayed scene, and he saw that he had glanced around several times in fear that he’d be spotted talking to her. He began shaking as he watched, sweat rolled down his brow and his body quivered in spasms even though he sat rigidly upright in the chair.

The bright images cast a flickering reflection on Brendan’s face and white tunic in the dimmed room, adding a grotesque enhancement to his obvious fear and discomfort. The Emperor took no pleasure in it.

The replay stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and the lights slowly increased in intensity. Except for the sound of Brendan’s rapid breathing, and the minute rustling of the man’s clothes as he shook visibly under the Emperor’s gaze, the room was silent. The Emperor remained where he was and regarded his aide steadily, saying nothing, asking nothing of him. He carefully, continuously monitored the aide’s readouts, despite the drain the effort caused him, and waited.

“There is a debt between our Houses,” Brendan offered at last, his voice trembling. “She… A representative of her House called on me, insisted that I meet with her. I couldn’t refuse.”

“We know.” The Emperor lowered his voice to a whisper. “What did she want?”

Brendan tried to reply, but each time he opened his mouth to speak he reconsidered what he was about to say and attempted to start over. His brow furrowed in puzzlement and his words came in sobs when he finally got control of himself enough to form a coherent answer. “I don’t know! She… I…” He sat upright once more, averting the Emperor’s gaze, and tried desperately to regain his composure.

You’re telling me the truth, he thought as he monitored several vital telltales in Brendan’s readouts. The Emperor steepled his hands before him and waited for Brendan to continue.

“I… I had made up my mind, long before I was to meet with her, to refuse whatever request she made. The debt between Houses is centuries old, and I intended to deny it.” He looked up again, his face flush with a mixture of shame and confusion. “I made an oath of loyalty to you, Sire, and have lived by that oath. I intended to invalidate the debt, but she made no request!”

“Think carefully,” the Emperor said. He spoke slowly, keeping his words firm, but at the same time letting the controlled power of his voice encourage the distraught young man to speak freely. “What did she say? What did you discuss?”

“Nothing of consequence, Sire, I swear!” His breathing had slowed, and he spoke more calmly now, but he shook his head in frustration as he searched his memory. “It seemed almost, for lack of a better description, like a… a family reunion. She asked only about my welfare: Were my duties demanding? Did I need anything? Had the change in location of the Imperial Court put a greater burden on me? Things of that sort.”

The Emperor listened as he described their conversation, then nodded in understanding when Brendan had finished. He leaned on an elbow, absently pulling at his thinning white beard as he considered the implications of what he’d heard.

“You were used,” he said flatly. “Your talk, her questions, seemed innocent enough; and on the surface, I suppose, they were. But I’m just as convinced that her people observed you constantly.”

“Sire, I don’t—”

“Your every word, your every action and mannerism, was analyzed as you spoke; probably by the very people who advised her what carefully rehearsed questions to ask of you. She wanted information, Brendan. On how close you are to me. On the current state of my health. On anything to do with my relationship with you or anyone else with whom I interact. And you unknowingly gave it to them.”

Brendan sat wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open in shock at the revelation.

The Emperor sighed and shook his head slowly. “The fault was not yours, it was mine.” It was mine, he repeated silently, for underestimating the bitch.

Brendan sank into the chair, overwhelmed with remorse. “Sire, I deeply regret my role in this…” Gone was the light banter the Emperor had enjoyed; gone was the assured way the young man had handled his duties these many years while at the same time allowing the Emperor to retain his dignity. Gone, too, was that which the Emperor would miss most: the closeness he’d been able to share with a person who had become more of a companion than a subject.

“This can be remedied,” the Emperor said, shaking Brendan from his depression. “But it will require a sacrifice on your part.”

“Anything, Sire!” His face beamed with the thought that he still might serve his ruler.

The Emperor watched the change in the man’s demeanor at the thought of somehow making amends. “I shall not ask for your agreement in this, for I have already made my decision as to your part in it. Before this day is out you will become the center of Imperial attention; you will be asked many questions by many people.” He watched Brendan’s reaction, weighed it against the look of puzzlement and foreboding in his eyes. “Say nothing of this discussion. Nothing. Do you understand?”

The young man nodded slowly, uncertainly.

“Say nothing,” he repeated. “Answer none of their questions.”

“Yes, Sire.” Brendan’s head hung nearly to his chest, his voice catching in his throat as he added: “I understand, but… I am not sure I understand why.”

The Emperor glided the powerchair close enough to Brendan that he could have touched him, and held out the bracelet, its shiny surface catching the light almost hypnotically. “Take this,” he said. “Its purpose will be explained later.” The medical aide obediently slipped the bracelet into a pocket. “Tell me: Would you give up your life for your Emperor?”

The man’s eyes widened, but he didn’t hesitate in answering. “Yes, Sire. I swore an oath to serve you when I agreed to the implants before leaving Corinth. I would not take back that oath now.”

“That is good,” the Emperor replied, his voice at once kindly and foreboding. “That is good. Because when this day ends, your life will truly be over.”

He glanced at the data stick in its slot and issued a silent one-word command:

Erase.

Chapter Eight

Prince Javas stood, alone for the moment, at one side of the stage. Everyone else—Imperial staff, aides, ranking members of the Court, and those taking part in the presentation itself—buzzed incessantly all around him.

At the opposite side of the cavernous area were several groups of people. He easily recognized Bomeer and his retinue, and even in the dim lighting could plainly detect the scowl on the man’s face. Nearby, Supreme Commander Fain gave last-minute orders to some of his people. By one of the rear entrances, Adela stood with the members of her lab team. As he watched, each of the scientists spoke to her briefly, shaking her hand or giving her a quick hug, before she turned and passed through the security check. He realized the necessity of the security efforts, of course, but still felt uneasy watching her being subjected to them and looked away. He caught sight of Glenney, walking vigilantly among them all, glancing first here, then there, apparently satisfied mat his security measures were in place. A wave of nervousness swept over him.

Only an hour earlier he had felt excited, anxious, and had enjoyed the rush of last-minute anticipation that the years of groundwork for his father’s project were at last to be replaced by the actual work of the project itself. But the mood of several key people around him—as well as the constant, impatient murmuring of the representatives of the Hundred Worlds Planetary Council filling the auditorium—had affected him greatly in these last moments before the presentation. The raw edge of anxiety in the air had infected him, for the worse, and now he felt simple, common nervousness.

He didn’t like the feeling.

The backstage area of the auditorium was enormous, nearly as large as the seating area itself, and Javas felt dwarfed by the massive velvet curtains, open now while last-minute details were being attended to. He stared above him at the flies, noting that Glenney’s handpicked men remained at their positions in the catwalks among the hoisted and secured pieces of scenery and theater lighting equipment. He smiled at the intricacies of what went on backstage, things normally invisible to a theater patron but nonetheless essential to a smooth production. Just like life, he mused.

Javas stepped around the curtain and glanced at the front of the stage, as he had nearly a hundred times already, and confirmed once more that the shielding was in place at the edge of the proscenium. It would remain, until the start of the proceedings, on an opaque setting. The crowd that shifted in anticipation on the other side of the shield could not see the dimly lighted stage area behind it, but the bright lighting in the house itself enabled Javas to see occasional movement of the audience on the other side. The silhouette of a dozen armed Imperial guards just on the other side of the shielding, their backs to him as they scanned the crowd, did little to ease his tension just now.

“Sire?”

Startled by the sudden intrusion into his thoughts, the Prince turned sharply to his personal aide. “Yes,” he snapped. “What is it?”

The aide bowed curtly. “Sire, I’ve been informed that the Emperor is on his way to the auditorium.”

“Very good. Please tell Commander Fain we’ll begin as soon as my father arrives.”

The man spun about and crossed quickly to the other side of the stage. Javas was about to join Fain himself, but was stopped by a light touch on the sleeve of his dress uniform.

Adela was a vision in a flowing gown of powder blue that fit her exquisitely, accentuating her beauty. Her dark hair, normally restrained or pulled back behind her head, tumbled freely across her shoulders. A polished stone, an agate, hung from a simple silver chain around her neck and she had adorned her hair with a single fire-red flower. She smiled, then turned wordlessly and walked to where Javas had stood just a few minutes earlier behind the gathered velvet curtain.

Javas followed. A security guard in Imperial dress stood near the wall a few meters away. Although forbidden to leave his assigned position, the man made a show of inspecting the flies and catwalks above him. With a smile, he read the guard’s name on the pocket of his uniform and made a mental note of it.

He embraced her then and, intoxicated by the way her perfume mixed pleasantly with the natural scent of the flower in her hair, kissed her.

They separated slightly and, still held in his strong arms, Adela lay her head against his chest. “I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” she said at last.

Javas took her chin gently in his fingertips and gazed down into her eyes. “I never doubted that it would.” Still cradling her chin in his hand, he kissed her again, more softly this time.

The nearby guard cleared his throat and Javas pulled away slowly, regretfully. The guard nodded across the stage and Javas turned, hands clasped behind his back, to see Fain approaching.

“Commander?”

Fain bowed his head briefly to Adela, then addressed the Prince. “Sire, your father is arriving.”

“Thank you.”

Fain bowed once more, then hurried to the rear entrance, which, Javas could see, was now bordered on both sides by members of the Court. He smiled at the guard and gave him a curt nod of thanks, then walked across the stage with Adela on his arm.

Academician Bomeer yawned.

They sat in two formal rows at the apron of the stage, a few meters back of the now-transparent shielding that curved invisibly around the edge. There were five places in the first row: Emperor Nicholas sat in his powerchair at center stage, flanked on his right by the Prince—now standing as he addressed the assembly with introductory remarks—and Dr. Montgarde. To the Emperor’s left was Fain’s chair, then his own just to the Commander’s left.

Bomeer paid as little attention to what the Prince was saying as he did to the dozen people sitting in the row behind them. He glanced idly at those seated in the second row of chairs just in front of the closed velvet curtain. Plantir Wynne was there, as was the Emperor’s nursemaid, Brendan. One of the scientist’s team was there, as well as several other members of the Court whose faces he couldn’t immediately place—or particularly care about.

Bomeer returned his attention to the assembly itself, disturbed by the importance of what he’d seen. The auditorium was filled nearly to its eight-hundred-seat capacity with the representatives of the Hundred Worlds and their guests, which was something Bomeer had never expected. And except for a smaller section at the rear of the house where a number of representatives not present on Luna were attending holographically, nearly every one of the attendees had made the long trip to be here personally as the Emperor outlined his foolish project.

Although the time for open discussion at the Council would not come until all the presentations had been made, Bomeer’s discreet investigations had already told him that support for the plan was strong among the worlds. He had found a number of representatives who openly opposed the venture, but was unsure if their opposition could be counted on.

As the Prince spoke of opportunity, advancing technology and benefits to all members of the Empire, Bomeer scanned the audience as the representatives listened in rapt attention to Javas’ words.

“… it will be a time of expansion, a time of science,” the Prince was saying. “Each world, giving of its resources and talents, will see itself grow in proportion to its contribution. And you may wonder: What of those worlds of lower technological background? What of the frontier worlds and new colonies just beginning that may have less expertise to spare as they work to shape and build their own homes?” Javas’ eyes slowly swept the audience as whispers and nods passed among some of the representatives who apparently had been thinking just that.

“These worlds, too, will share in this endeavor. The frontier worlds, while sometimes poor in technology, are rich in materials essential to the successful completion of the most important effort ever undertaken by the Hundred Worlds. These worlds, in return for the construction of ships and manpower, can expect more help in establishing a home than any world has received since the beginning of the Empire…”

No wonder there is such a positive feeling among the worlds, Bomeer thought. Cooperation is easy to acquire when it’s paid for.

The academician looked back out over the audience once more, attempting to tune out the Prince’s words, but was again impressed by the assembly. The representatives had been seated, Bomeer realized, according to the distance from Earth of their home planets. Each delegation was identified by a smaller banner attached to its row displaying the crest or flag of that planet. Those from the nearer worlds sat in the front rows, those more distant in the upper portion of the auditorium. The representatives from Earth, Luna and the Orbitals sat in the first row itself.

Bomeer looked at the Earth delegation, and his heart nearly stopped when he saw a tall bearded man sitting with the group. My God, what is he doing here?

As he stared at Johnson the man turned sharply and his eyes met Bomeer’s unexpectedly. The Earther’s feral, wolf-like eyes narrowed and—was the man smiling at him?

The time has come, the Emperor thought as he listened to his son. Ignoring his own tiredness, he took pride in the way the Prince worked the crowd, in how the representatives of the Hundred Worlds hung on each of his words. You will make a fine leader.

Javas had finished speaking and had come to his side to assist him as he prepared to address the auditorium. He glided the powerchair forward about a meter in front of the others and placed his hands firmly on the arms of the chair. With Javas steadying him at his elbow, he pushed himself to his feet. He saw the concerned look on his son’s face, and smiled to reassure him that the assisters on his legs, as well as the back brace that enabled him to walk, were working fine.

His heart pounded at the effort of each step, and he felt a bead of sweat running down his scalp as he concentrated hard on keeping Brendan from reading the pain caused by the pressure the brace was putting on his back. He turned to his son and embraced him, then regarded the auditorium once more and waited for the applause to fade.

He raised a hand to silence them, then dropped it quickly to his side when he felt it shaking. A pain rose in his chest and he concentrated even harder on suppressing the information his implants would now be trying to relay to the bio-readouts Brendan was monitoring.

“Members of the Hundred Worlds,” he began, and as his voice echoed through the auditorium sound system he envisioned his words flowing out, not just to those seated before him, but leaping across space itself to the very reaches of the Empire. “Members of the Court; citizens and friends, all. We embark today on a journey, the likes of which make the Empire itself seem small by comparison.”

The speech he gave was not memorized, but there had been no need to. He knew what he wanted, needed, to say. There was additional applause periodically as he spoke, and the Emperor took advantage of each pause in the address to catch his breath and refocus his concentration. At one point, his knees began to shake almost imperceptibly in the assisters Brendan had fitted to his legs, and he felt a weakness flow over him like a wave. At that moment, he sensed Brendan probing him and clamped down even more tightly on his systems to hide what he was truly feeling.

“In just a few moments… A young scientist with a vision will address you in a few moments.” His will was drifting and, realizing that his words were becoming rambling and repetitive, he tried to pay closer attention to what he was saying. “Her ingenuity, her drive and her dreams are exemplary,” he went on. The words came now with great difficulty and a light-headedness swept over him briefly before he managed to force it away. He was sweating freely now and, no longer able to control his hands, kept them riveted at his side to hide their shaking. “But without… the cooperation of all of us, working together as one, her dream is nothing. And that, I think, is… the real strength of the Hundred Worlds; that each member world, strong in itself, is made stronger by… by the association of others.”

There was applause again, and the Emperor felt his son’s hand on his shoulder. Javas was standing by his side, concern evident in his eyes. The Emperor looked at the other members of the Court seated on the stage. Tears glistened in Adela’s eyes and she was plainly frightened. Fain fidgeted in his seat, looking helpless. Even Bomeer appeared uncomfortable as he chewed absently on a lower lip. Javas looked pleadingly at him, then turned to Brendan seated just behind the powerchair and demanded, “Is he all right?”

“I—I don’t know!” Brendan sputtered. “His readings are… confusing.”

The Emperor saw the sheer terror on Brendan’s face, and knew that only then did his medical aide realize that he’d been hiding his true condition from him all along.

He felt a squeezing in his chest, a line of pain burning down the length of his left arm. The auditorium spun around him and he felt himself weaving as the pain flooded in, but found that he couldn’t fall because the assisters on his legs automatically compensated for the erratic motions.

“Father!”

Everything was happening at once around him, and yet it all seemed to move in slow motion: Javas reaching for him. Brendan on his feet and moving quickly to his side. Fain barking orders into his wrist comm. Adela gasping, a hand over her mouth. Glenney bursting through the curtains. Everyone talking, crying, shouting at once. And through it all, a deathly, stunned silence fell over the auditorium.

Another wave of pain racked him and he pitched forward into Javas’ arms. He stopped repressing his monitoring implants, allowing his bio-readouts to flow freely once more, and heard an immediate, sharp gasp at his shoulder. Brendan stumbled backward as the sudden messages of agony momentarily overloaded his implants before he could regain control.

Javas eased him to the floor and knelt there, cradling his father in his lap. The Emperor felt the pressure of tiny fingers on his hand and became aware that Adela was kneeling at his son’s side, her face a mask of consuming grief.

Free now of the burden of controlling the readings his implants were sending out, he was surprised at how clear his thoughts had become. Despite the tremendous pain, the Emperor understood now why the auditorium had grown oppressively silent and realized that someone—Fain, probably, or maybe Glenney—had cut off the audio pickup carrying the presentation to the auditorium sound system, and then out over the Imperial net. Closing his eyes tightly, he used the last bit of strength he possessed to search the computer circuitry and found the necessary channel to reactivate the system.

“Hear me,” he said, his eyes still closed, in a voice barely more than a whisper. The words echoed in the auditorium and the Emperor smiled weakly as he imagined the signal spreading out. Instantly to Armelin City, then a split second later to Earth, then a few seconds after that to the Orbitals, then a few minutes more to the colonies in Sol system, and finally out across the Hundred Worlds themselves.

“Hear me! This is not… an ending, but… a beginning.” The Emperor coughed violently and struggled for breath before continuing. “Do not allow what has… been done to me to stray you from… from our noble goal.”

He who is willing to die for his cause… Gasping for breath, he opened his eyes and found Brendan leaning over him. It was easy to see in the young man’s ashen face the realization of what his role in this would become. Part of him wanted to apologize, but he turned away instead.

“As I ask you to work together… for understanding in this,” the Emperor wheezed, “can I do less than demand the same… of myself?”

“Father, please. Lie still.” Javas’ face reflected the pain he felt inside.

The Emperor looked into his son’s eyes. “Prince Javas. Son. I—I have made many decisions during my reign. As my last decision, in the spirit… of the task which now falls upon you… I forgive those who did this to me. I pardon them.” His head rolled unceremoniously to the side, and the life went out of him.

Javas eased his father’s body to the stage and grasped Brendan’s shoulder in his strong hands, jerking him unsteadily to his feet.

“Why is my father dead?” he demanded. “Why was his condition not relayed to medical?”

On hearing the Prince’s words, Glenney summoned several of his nearest men with a snap of his fingers.

Javas held the hapless man by both shoulders now, shaking him as he continued. “You were in constant link with him; you are the only one who could have suppressed his readouts!”

He released his grip on the man’s sleeves, allowing him to collapse into a sobbing heap. Javas turned in disgust as Glenney’s men dragged Brendan off the stage.

Chapter Nine

The sun glowed a brilliant red and streamers of red and orange played through the clouds and jet contrails lacing across the evening sky. As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, the red glow in the sky remained well into dusk as stars appeared one by one through the glow. Brendan walked along the narrow, hard-packed dirt road with no particular destination in mind, but hoped he’d find the inn soon. A passing farmer had told him there was an inn on the outskirts of the village up ahead where he could get an excellent meal and a room for the night.

He shook his head in bemused confusion as he remembered his short chat with the farmer. The man had been driving a primitive wooden wagon pulled by two of the most beautiful work horses genetic engineering could produce, but when he’d stopped to give him directions to the village, Brendan had noticed that the back of the rickety wagon was filled with an odd array of farming equipment: There were several wood and metal hoes, rakes and shovels, as might be expected, each covered with hardened mud and manure. But jumbled haphazardly in with the hand tools was an electronic hydro-drill—also mud- and manure-encrusted—and a number of water condenser components that obviously came from a state-of-the-art irrigation system.

What a study in contrasts Earth was, with dirt roads and animal-drawn vehicles coexisting with advanced biotechnology and jet aircraft. The oddest thing about it all was that the Earthers didn’t even seem to notice the contradiction. Best to get used to it, he reminded himself, since I’ll be spending the rest of my life here.

He found the inn just over the next rise. It had grown dark and he was close enough to hear the sounds of revelry coming from inside the tavern even before he managed to get a good look at it. It was large and inviting, two-storied, and except for the metal sheeting of the roof was made entirely of wood. There was a hand-carved sign that swung precariously above an entrance lighted by two lanterns. Several horses were tied to a horizontal post nearby and pawed the ground nervously each time the swinging sign banged against the siding of the house. Looking up in the dimness, he could just make out the dish of a receiving antenna mounted on the roof.

The inside of the tavern was as much a collection of contradictions as anything he’d seen in the three weeks he’d been on Earth. A roaring fire warmed the room and candles provided most of the lighting at the scattered tables, but a public information screen was mounted just inside the entranceway and music, obviously recorded, filled the room. There were maybe ten people inside; some were eating, some sharing drinks. Three men, their clothing soiled from whatever constituted their daily occupation, talked loudly at a table near the fireplace and occasionally burst into fits of laughter. No one paid him much attention when he entered.

He made his way to the massive wooden bar and ordered a hot meal and a tall mug of the local brew—a bitter but not unpleasant-tasting malt beverage served at room temperature—and took it to an unoccupied table to await his dinner.

“Will you be staying the night, then, sir?” asked the innkeeper when he brought his plate, heaped with steaming food. Seeing him closely for the first time, Brendan realized that he was a mere boy, no more than nineteen years old. He was startled for a moment to see someone so young working at a job such as this, but remembered that this was normal: Native Earthers didn’t use life extension. It was commonplace to begin a life’s work early here.

“Uh, yes. Yes, I’ll need a room for the night.”

“Very good, sir.” The boy turned to a woman clearing a table on the far side of the room and whistled over the chatter to catch her attention. He held up two fingers. “Room two for the traveler, Sarah,” he called out before turning back to his customer. “My wife’ll have your room ready by the time you’ve finished. Will you be having another ale, then?”

“No. Thank you.” The boy—no, young man, Brendan reminded himself—nodded and returned to his place behind the bar. Brendan finished his meal undisturbed, paid for it and the room and went up to bed.

He was so tired and sore from walking that after removing his boots he fell onto the bed fully clothed. Despite his fatigue, he did not fall asleep easily, which was becoming commonplace of late, and lay staring out the room’s single window. The Moon had risen, and cast a pale glow across the floor.

I did what you asked, he thought. I said nothing, told them nothing. His head ached slightly, although he couldn’t tell if the dull pain was caused by the deactivated implants or the strong ale he’d consumed.

Why? Was it so important to you to see this project begun that you had to sacrifice your life this way? Brendan sighed heavily and tossed fitfully in the small bed. He rubbed tired, burning eyes and silently added, And mine?

Hours passed and he was nearly asleep when there came a soft knocking at the door. Not bothering to attempt to light the oil lamp on the table, he stumbled across the room with only moonlight to guide him and opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

It was Sarah, the innkeeper’s wife. She carried an electric flashlight and he blinked at the brightness of the beam streaming in through the door. “Sorry to be disturbing you, sir, but the traveler you were expecting has arrived. He and his wife are waiting downstairs at table.”

Brendan shook his head to clear it. “What traveler? I was expecting no one.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she replied, “but he did not give his name. Shall I tell him you shan’t be disturbed until morning, then?”

Curiosity got the better of him and he quickly pulled on his boots. “No. I’ll see him.” Sarah stepped back and allowed the glow of the flashlight to guide them both down the narrow staircase.

The man stood immediately when Sarah led him into the dining room, surprising Brendan with his size.

“Will you have some more coffee, sir?” She indicated a large pot and several cups sitting on the table.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” the bearded stranger said politely in a deep, resonant voice. “We’ll be fine for now.” He turned his attention to Brendan. “Come, sir, and join me at my table.”

Brendan sat down and gratefully took the offered cup of steaming coffee. He sipped carefully of the hot liquid and studied the stranger. The fire had burned down, but the mound of glowing embers in the fireplace cast an eerie light that reflected in the man’s feral eyes. And even seated, he still looked taller than any Earther Brendan had yet seen.

“I’m afraid you have the advantage,” Brendan began. “Do I know you?”

“My name is Johnson.”

Brendan offered his hand and winced at the strength in Johnson’s handshake.

“It’s good to meet you…” Brendan hesitated, looking for the proper salutation. “Uh, Mr. Johnson.”

A dying log shifted suddenly in the embers, momentarily bathing the room in orange brightness. In the few moments since Brendan had come downstairs, most of his attention had been focused on Johnson, and he’d paid little heed to the woman sitting at his side. But as the flow in the room increased, he saw her clearly for the first time.

She had darkened her hair and her face was nearly hidden by the high collar of the Earther coat she wore, but as the glow of the fireplace bathed her features in a dance of flickering light, there was no mistaking that the woman playing the role of Johnson’s wife was Rihana Valtane.

As he had numerous times since his father’s death nearly three weeks earlier, Javas met now with the Emperor’s two closest friends and advisors in what was to have been his father’s study. There was much to do now that the Planetary Council had, by an overwhelming margin, given official approval to Dr. Montgarde’s project, and Javas had consulted with Fain and Bomeer repeatedly. The Commander, having realized the benefits of the project to the Imperial military fleet, had proven himself to be one of its staunchest supporters. Bomeer, too—although still quick to point out every flaw or negative aspect of his planning—seemed, at least, to have mellowed in his opposition.

Commander Fain paced slowly in front of the viewscreen. “Pallatin has been a thorn in the Empire’s side since it was colonized three centuries ago,” Fain said in a voice now husky from overuse. “They have had little discourse with other worlds, still less trade, and except for minimal representation on the Planetary Council, have preferred to allow themselves to develop without Imperial assistance. They even seem unconcerned about how their gene pools have drifted and have no interest in preserving a genetic baseline. It was no surprise that the representatives from Pallatin’s governing body, the ‘Joint Dominion,’ were among the few of the Hundred Worlds to refuse, outright, their cooperation.”

Fain crossed the width of the room quickly, retaking his seat next to Bomeer’s. “Unfortunately,” he went on, “they also possess more raw materials necessary for shipbuilding than any of the worlds. Their construction facilities, likewise, are among the finest in the Empire—”

“But they are a member of the Empire, even if in name only,” Javas finished for him. “As such, they cannot, will not, outright refuse the needs of the Empire.”

Fain shrugged, nodded in understanding. Many of the outermost worlds of the Empire had seen unrest and had shown a certain level of defiance. The chief of staff of the Imperial Military Forces had maintained throughout his career that a firmer hand was needed with the frontier worlds and, while he did not exactly welcome the opportunity to use force, agreed that it was necessary and that he was prepared to use it.

“We need Pallatin’s cooperation in this,” Javas said firmly. “Do what is required, Commander.”

Fain nodded in sharp agreement, the slight hint of satisfaction in his manner telling Javas that he was not displeased with the decision.

This meeting, like so many of the others, had lasted hours. Javas rubbed his face with both hands in an attempt to perk himself up and a sudden feeling of frustration swept over him, interrupting the subject at hand. He blinked the tiredness from his eyes and let them wander over the study. He took in the viewscreen and the handcrafted woodwork of the cabinetry, felt the massive wooden desk beneath his fingertips; he’d personally designed this room and all its contents for the Emperor, had it equipped with every convenience, every comfort his father might want. Javas was surprised, when he reluctantly took the study as his own, at how comfortable the room was, how it seemed to “fit” him. The feeling disturbed him.

“Why did he do it? Why did he pardon his own murderer?” Javas pounded a fist on the desk in frustration, startling both men seated across from him. He leaned forward and rested his chin on steepled fingers, staring intently at the two. “You knew him, Fain, better than anyone. Why?”

“I can’t answer that, Sire.” Fain sat rigidly in his chair, not quite at attention, and returned the new Emperor’s gaze. There was strength in those eyes, Javas realized, but pain and frustration lay behind them as well.

“Nor can I,” Bomeer added softly. He ran a hand absently through thick brown hair that was more unruly than usual. “Sire, no one could have detected the extent of the threat your father’s—’caretaker’ presented to his health. No one.” He let his gaze fall to the floor as he chose his words, then regarded Javas seriously, but carefully. “Sire, I served your father all my life, and spoke candidly to him of my feelings in all things—even when my feelings went against his, as they did concerning this project. It is true that the bluntness of my remarks angered him on occasion, but my advice was always accepted at face value. May I be so bold as to speak bluntly now?”

Fain turned slightly in his chair, an eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly.

“If I’ve learned nothing else from my father, it was to seek—and carefully consider—the counsel of others. Speak freely.”

Bomeer cleared his throat softly, and without further hesitation said, “Sire, you are blaming yourself for your father’s death.”

“Is that so, Academician?” Javas heard the anger rising in his voice. “And how about you, Commander? Do you concur?”

Fain’s answer was instantaneous. “I do.” He paused then, as if taking further measure of his new Emperor before continuing. “And if I, too, may speak candidly, Sire?”

Javas nodded.

“It is my considered opinion that this preoccupation with your own possible guilt in this matter can serve only to weaken your resolve in achieving your father’s goals.”

Javas opened his mouth to refute the statement, but realized that the man was right and instead shook his head slowly in resignation, allowing his anger to drain slowly away. Looking first to one, then the other, he saw that each seemed as tired as he himself felt, and he was certain that a glance into a mirror would show the same dark circles under his eyes that he saw under those of his companions.

He pushed away from the desk and crossed silently to the viewscreen on the opposite wall. Arms folded across his chest, he stared idly at the graphic representation of the Pallatin system Fain had been discussing.

They’re both right, he thought, still standing before the screen. I am blaming myself. He sighed heavily and returned to the desk.

“Thank you for your honesty,” said the Emperor of the Hundred Worlds, nodding to each of them in turn. “Commander, when can you have a ship crewed and ready to depart for Pallatin?”

They lay next to each other, legs still entangled in the satin sheets of the huge bed, and stared tranquilly at the branches of the trees swaying gently above them. From time to time the rustling boughs parted enough to see the sky, revealing a field of stars as unfamiliar to Javas as those seen from Luna. He propped himself up on an elbow and smiled at the way the holographic forest around them was augmented by the scent of leaves and flowers, and how the singing of a night bird in the distance seemed to call forth the twin moons now rising brightly through a clearing of thin saplings. He watched her as she lay, taking in the way her hair cascaded over her pale shoulders, the rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing slowed. Her face was turned to watch the rising of the moons, and he couldn’t read the expression there. Their lovemaking had been passionate, but preoccupied in the knowledge that she was leaving.

Despite the impression of openness suggested by the holographic forest, the room had grown warm, and as Javas stroked the smooth flatness of Adela’s stomach with his left hand, his fingertips glided softly over a thin sheen of perspiration. He furrowed his brow in concentration and silently ordered the temperature lowered a few degrees. An extra moment of will as he concentrated gave rise to a whisper of air that enveloped the bed chamber like a breeze, seeming more a natural part of the “forest” than that of the room’s cooling system. Although Javas was still unaccustomed to the integrator, and was still learning to use it with the effortless ease his father had shown, he was already beginning to appreciate some of the finer opportunities it presented.

Adela’s breathing had slowed to normal and was now almost inaudible. She took his hand in both of hers and brought it to her lips as she turned to him amid the jumble of sheets. She pulled Javas to her and embraced him in a long, warm kiss. He was about to return the kiss, but she pulled away and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Without a word, she left his side, crossing to a small settee marking the edge of the room and stood, her back to him, silhouetted against the moons as she admired the vista around them.

“Thank you,” she said tenderly, “for the vision of home. I’ve missed it so.”

“I had it programmed some time ago,” he replied, still leaning on his elbow. “It was to be a gift.” She’s so tiny, he thought, watching the moonlight shining through the moving trees play across the gentle curves of her body. “Although I’d not intended it as a going-away gift.”

It made sense, of course, for her to leave. If anyone could convince the Pallatins to the necessity of their cooperation, it was she. Hadn’t she, after all, convinced him? If the ship Fain was sending ultimately had to use force to bring the Joint Dominion into line, it wouldn’t be for lack of her persuasive talents. Then there was the time factor. They both had come to terms with the fact that she would need to follow this project through to its conclusion, requiring either long periods of cryosleep or travel at near-relativistic speeds or, more likely, both. The round trip would take forty years, in realtime, while she would age only a few.

A bird flew past so close she started for a moment, then giggled in the realization of how silly it must have appeared to be so completely fooled by something that wasn’t even there. Javas smiled. I love all the childlike, joyously simple things about you, he thought silently as her gentle laughter reached his ears. I’m going to miss them. The thought reminded him of another, more important reason why he hadn’t fought her decision to go: her personal safety. Until he’d managed to learn the truth surrounding his father’s death, he preferred that she be somewhere else for now.

There was a soft chiming, so faint that it might have gone unnoticed but for its intrusion in the peaceful setting all around them.

“Acknowledged.” The chiming stopped. Javas pulled a robe around him, then went to Adela, who had not moved from her spot near the settee. Standing behind her, he encircled her in this strong arms and kissed her once on the neck.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

He followed Adela as she wordlessly retrieved a light knee-length wraparound from the tangled covers at the foot of Javas’ bed and slipped it on, smoothing it down with the palms of her hands before cinching it around her narrow waist.

“I have to go.”

Javas nodded and, after taking one last look around at the serene Grisian forest, addressed the room system. “Cancel and store display.” The scene instantly dissolved and was replaced by his bed chamber.

He wanted to hold her, ask—no, command—her to stay, but knew better than to try. Instead, he took her upturned face in his hands and kissed her once.

“Good-bye,” he said simply.

Adela smiled and, reaching up to his face, played smooth fingertips over the stubble on his cheek. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, then turned and quietly let herself out of his bed chamber.

And out of his life for the next forty years.